


Undercover

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Chess as flirting, Concussions, F/M, Fic, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Relationship Negotiation, undercover in a gay bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-03
Updated: 2010-08-03
Packaged: 2017-10-10 22:39:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/105152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some clichés, some angst, some relationship negotiation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Undercover

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this to my LJ in 31 parts over May and June of 2010.
> 
> Thanks to mergatrude and sage for betaing parts of this, and to everyone who read along as I posted it piecemeal.

"You should let me suck you off," said Neal, his eyes glittering in the dim light of the crowded, deafening bar. He leaned in and his breath was hot on Peter's ear as he added, "I come with excellent references. Best blowjob of your life guaranteed."

Peter tried to remember when he'd stepped into this alternate dimension where sexually explicit conversation between himself and Neal Caffrey was okay, but Neal's fingers were gripping his thigh and it was hard to think at all. It was the music—too damned loud. That's what it was.

Still, Neal couldn't be allowed to get away with such an outrageous and, frankly, insulting assertion, whatever the circumstances.

"I highly doubt that." Peter angled his head to speak directly into Neal's ear, though he still had to shout to make himself heard. "My wife's pretty incredible."

Peter sat back in time to see Neal's eyes widen fractionally, and a mocking smile ghost across his face. "I was wondering what it would take to get you to break your cover."

He motioned to the bar tender, holding up two fingers. Of course, being Neal, he got an immediate response: two shots of warm sake on the bar.

Peter snorted. As if anyone could hear a damned thing they were saying. "You think that was—?" He remembered himself and smiled, trying to look flirtatious. "You think I'm the only guy here tonight who's married to a woman? Guess again."

To punctuate his argument, he downed his sake in one swallow, glad that the bar was too noisy for them to be wearing wires. He really didn't need this exchange on record.

"Even so, I'm disappointed," said Neal, holding his drink at the ready. "I thought you'd last more than half an hour in a place like this without having to mention your wife."

Peter shook his head, which was muzzy with the crush of people and noise, and the faint warm buzz of the sake. He leaned in again and was jostled by a passing couple into nearly falling off his bar stool. He put his hand on Neal's shoulder for balance. "If you're implying I'm uncomfortable because this is a gay bar, you're hitting wide of the mark, buddy. I'm uncomfortable because this is a _bar_, and I'd rather be—"

Before he could finish his defense, Neal turned his head and cut him off with a kiss, a soft warm press of lips outlined with faint scratchy stubble. Peter kissed back instinctively, opened his mouth before he realized, and felt Neal's tongue slide against his own, and _Jesus—_

Peter swallowed a groan and was just about to push Neal off and berate him for being wholly and utterly out of line, when Neal dragged his mouth away, nuzzled along Peter's jaw and said in his ear, "MacLean just walked in the door. Looks like he's meeting the guy sitting behind you."

"And this made you decide to—" Peter broke off. In Neal Caffrey's world, kissing someone as a cover would make perfect sense. It was probably normal behavior, along with stealing their wallet and their house keys and cleaning out their bank account. And there was no denying it was a good cover: it was past eleven, and about a third of the guys in here were getting up close and personal. So although every instinct told Peter to push Neal away and shut him down before one or both of them started to mean it, he hesitated.

Neal put his hand on Peter's shoulder, stroked his thumb along the line of his collar, raising goose bumps down Peter's neck, and pulled him closer. "There's something else. MacLean isn't alone. He's got Edward Riley as his wingman."

Damn! Neal had tricked Riley out of his suitcase full of gold cards only a week ago; Riley would recognize him in a second, and if Riley's reputation was anything to go by, he wouldn't be gentle.

"We have to get you out of here." Peter clamped down on the urge to look around and confirm Neal's story for himself, and started to get up instead. Maybe they could exit through the back. But Neal's grip tightened.

"Too late—he'll see me. They're heading this way." Neal must be watching Riley's progress in the mirror behind the bar.

Peter was armed, but pulling a gun in a place this crowded would be a disaster, not to mention jeopardizing their case against MacLean. They didn't have the evidence they needed for an arrest, or even a search warrant. And now it looked like the best and safest chance of getting that evidence was canoodling with Neal Caffrey in a crowded, noisy, overpriced bar.

Words could not express how much he wished he'd sent Jones in his place.

"Stop frowning," murmured Neal. "You look like an FBI agent."

"You can't possibly know that." They were still cheek to cheek. Peter sighed, told himself it was for greater justice, put the inevitable confession to El out his mind and said, "Come here."

The second kiss was less of a shock, now Peter knew it was part of their cover. Plus he was pretty sure El would be okay with it, since Neal's physical safety was at stake. He let Neal lead so as not to abuse his position (or allow Neal to compromise him)—there might not be a formal protocol for this kind of situation, but Peter was thinking clearly enough to know Hughes couldn't possibly condone Peter pushing Neal into any kind of intimate situation he wasn't comfortable with.

Not that he had any desire at all to discuss this with Hughes.

Neal set a leisurely pace, teasing at Peter's lips and flicking his tongue into Peter's mouth, and touching Peter's shoulder, his ear, his throat. Peter strained to catch the conversation behind him, and with his remaining brain cells, resolutely thought of El. Which kind of backfired, because it led to comparing El's kissing technique with Neal's. El's was sweeter, familiar, incredibly sexy in its contrast with her often-demure public persona, and imbued with ten years of love, whereas Neal was impudent—in this as in everything—but without being pushy, somehow lazy and exploratory at the same time. A contradiction.

After a few minutes of this kind of analysis, Peter found himself sliding off his barstool to stand between Neal's thighs. He slid one arm around Neal's waist to draw him closer, telling himself it was for appearances' sake but aware that he was shamefully and thoroughly turned on. Neal bit his jaw gently, and said in Peter's ear, "They're leaving."

Peter inhaled sharply and gathered his wits. "Do you know what they were planning? I didn't hear a word."

"They were arranging the delivery. I got the details," said Neal. He pulled back, glanced down and then leaned in again. "You know, I could help you with that."

Peter flushed. "Game's over, Caffrey. Let's get out of here."

But he couldn't resist checking Neal's crotch, and yeah, Peter wasn't the only one affected. That was flattering and potentially a problem. Peter shepherded him out of the bar, stood in the bitter, exhaust-fumy New York night and gave them both a minute to recover. Neal straightened his tie, relayed what he'd heard and didn't mock Peter for having missed the entire conversation. He was avoiding Peter's gaze, which Peter almost didn't notice because he was mostly avoiding Neal's gaze too.

When the tension (if not the awkwardness) had mostly subsided, they went around the corner to the surveillance van where Jones and Cruz were waiting. "We've got what we need," said Peter. "MacLean's moving the goods tomorrow night."

They logged all the intel they'd gathered and Peter called it a night. They could set up the bust in the morning. Cruz took the van back to the Bureau garage, and it was tempting to ask Jones to drive Neal home, but Peter squared his shoulders, said goodnight to Jones and waved Neal toward the Taurus, telling himself it was stupid to be self-conscious about this. Neal was unusually attractive—no secret there—and given that fact, Peter's reaction had been entirely logical and explainable. It didn't mean anything, except that Peter had a functioning autonomic system and perhaps wasn't as utterly straight as he'd always assumed.  
 

* * * * *

  


 

Neal sat in the passenger seat, staring through the windshield, not saying a damned thing. If he'd cracked a joke, made light of the incident, Peter could have let it lie, but this restraint was a problem. Peter sighed under his breath. "Do we need to talk about this?"

Neal's head whipped around. "I don't think so, no."

"I think we do," said Peter, resenting himself for being so conscientious. "Listen, Neal, I—"

"Can we—not? Please." Neal looked forward again. "There's nothing to talk about. I'm not even—" He broke off and bit his lip, and Peter was reminded how young he was. Neal might have had enough life experience for a dozen people, but it was a mishmash, nothing conventional or routine. He was smart enough to cover for the gaps in his knowledge most of the time, but Peter could see through his façade so easily now, he sometimes forgot it was there. Or perhaps Neal didn't bother putting up a front with him anymore.

"You're not what?" said Peter.

"I'm not gay," said Neal. "Or bi. Whatever. I'm not wired that way." He sounded almost shamed by the admission.

Peter had no idea whether to believe him, but if it were true, it would definitely make his life easier. He cleared his throat. "You sure talk a good game."

"Talk." Neal lifted his hand, then dropped it in his lap. "Undercover. It's what I do, right?"

"Right." Peter could buy that. Neal was fundamentally an actor, and if being in character meant doing things he wouldn't naturally do, well, it wasn't beyond the bounds of possibility that Neal could manufacture the necessary emotions for the occasion. He certainly had the brass. Peter drummed his thumb on the steering wheel. "And there's Kate."

"There is Kate," Neal agreed.

Peter pulled up to the curb on Riverside Drive, expecting Neal to flee the car.

He didn't. "Look, it was a life or death situation," he said, rapidly. "I appreciate you—going along with it. Taking one for the team. But can we just—"

"—never speak of it again?" Peter said wryly.

Neal breathed a laugh. "Something like that."

"Okay, if that's what you want." Peter regretted the phrasing as soon as the words were out of his mouth. That sounded like _he_ wanted to hang onto what had happened. Wanted it to mean something. "I mean, sure. Good. I'll see you tomorrow."

Neal slid out of the car and leaned back in to say goodnight.

"Neal," said Peter.

"Yeah?"

Peter gave him a nod of approval. "Good work tonight."  
 

* * * * *

  


 

El was still up when Peter got home, curled on the couch in her pajamas, watching a Bogart movie on TV. She didn't wait for him to confess.

"So, is he a good kisser?" she asked, her eyes dancing.

Peter felt his face heat. "What makes you think we—?"

"Honey, you went undercover with Neal in a gay bar." She beckoned him to sit next to her. "What were the chances you wouldn't have to kiss each other? Tell me everything."

He sat down and eyed her warily. "You know, El, you have a very strange view of FBI work."

"Are you telling me you didn't kiss Neal tonight?" She raised her eyebrows, and Peter knew he should be glad that she was making this so easy.

"Edward Riley was there," he said shortly, knowing his irritation was irrational. "He would've killed Neal on sight."

"So you kissed," said El. She slipped an arm around him. "I knew it would be something like that." She laughed softly. "It's okay, honey, I know it doesn't mean anything. I trust you."

Peter leaned back against the couch and pulled a face, and El's gaze sharpened.

"Is there something else you need to tell me?"

"Other than how good a kisser Neal is?" said Peter, drily. "I got—I _enjoyed_ it more than you might have expected. More than I expected."

"You mean you—?" El rested her hand below Peter's belt buckle. "Oh. Well—" Peter could see her brain whirring, wondering what to do with that information.

"It's probably because I have positive associations," he reasoned. "I mean, I haven't kissed anyone but you in over a decade, so naturally I have good associations with kissing. Anyway, we talked about it and he's straight."

El blinked, and her forehead creased. "Huh."

"Too," said Peter hastily. "He's straight too. So it's no big deal."

"Well, good." El cuddled up next to him. "He's got enough of a crush on you without it being that kind of a crush."

Peter closed his eyes and counted to ten. "Honey, you're not helping."

"Hmm?" She loosened his tie and popped the top button on his shirt. "Helping how?"

He clasped her shoulder. "I'm having a minor—very minor—sexual identity crisis."

"Because you got turned on from kissing Neal," said El, nodding. She undid the rest of his buttons and kissed the corner of his mouth. "Go on."

"So this is hardly the time to tell me he has a crush on me," explained Peter with exaggerated patience. "Things are going to be weird enough as it is—"

El straddled his lap. "Oh honey, this isn't the first time you've been attracted to someone you work with, you know."

"Diana was different," said Peter, but then he couldn't remember why. Diana was a lesbian and Neal was straight; neither of them were capable of returning his attraction. He'd been Diana's boss too. "I never kissed Diana."

"Just as well," said El, giving him a stern look. "I think Christie and I would both have had a problem if you had."

"But it's okay that I kissed Neal?" Peter shot back incredulously. "El!"

"For reasons of personal safety, because you were undercover," said El. "Yes, I'm okay with that. Would you rather I was unreasonable about it?" She shook her head and looked at him fondly, as if he were being particularly stupid. "Finding Neal attractive isn't the same as acting on it. If it was, half the population of New York would be committing adultery, and Neal would be a very tired man." She flashed Peter a grin and cupped his cheek. "And being occasionally attracted to men isn't that different from occasionally being attracted to other women, so long as you still want to be married to me." She pouted a little, teasing him. "You still do, don't you?"

"I love you," said Peter, grateful not only because she was beautiful and brilliant and his, but because she'd resolved his crisis in under a minute. So what if he was—maybe—attracted to Neal. He didn't have to do anything about it. He _couldn't_ do anything about it. Whereas there were no such constraints on his relationship with the gorgeous woman in his lap who, he soon discovered, wasn't wearing any underwear.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

In between parking the car the next morning and reaching his office, Peter encountered fourteen men, including the kid at the coffee shop who must have been all of twenty-five. Peter didn't want to kiss any of them.

Last night must have been an aberration. Maybe something in the sake. Whatever it was, he'd made a mistake. He was as straight as ever.

Then Neal walked in, punctual to the second, and Peter's stomach flip-flopped. Oh _crap_.

He watched from his desk as Neal sauntered across the office floor, greeting people even Peter didn't know. Neal paused by Cruz's desk and stopped to chat to her and Jones, who was reading the newspaper over her shoulder. Cruz made a crisp, probably biting remark, and Neal turned on the charm, which was never going to work with her. Peter didn't know why he bothered. True to form, Cruz rolled her eyes, got up and headed to the coffee machine, swinging her cup from one finger.

Jones turned and reached for a file on his own desk, and as he did, Neal eyed his ass speculatively. Jones stood up again and Neal's face went blank, and then Neal glanced up and caught Peter watching.

Their gazes locked. Across half the office and through the glass wall, Peter could've sworn he heard Neal's sharp intake of breath.

Peter forced himself to look away. He felt flushed and uncomfortable, too aware of his body—accelerated heart rate, overheated skin. If it weren't for the MacLean bust, he'd have called it a day. Spent the morning at the firing range, maybe, letting off steam. As it was, he had no choice but to fake indifference. He just needed a few days to adjust and let the awareness subside. Then everything would go back to normal.

In the meantime, he'd make sure that he didn't spend any time alone with Neal.

Unfortunately, Peter was basically incapable of ignoring unresolved questions, and even more so if the question was _What's going on with Neal?_ That look across the office hadn't just been a challenge or Neal feeling caught out. It had been something—well, Peter wasn't prepared to classify it without more information, but definitely something conflicted and unresolved. So all morning, trying to avoid Neal lost out to trying to figure him out.

The CI on the MacLean case came in at eleven for a meeting. His name was Phil Bachsted, and until now, Peter had thought of him as just another kid from Wall St, not so different from the boiler room guys except that he had a conscience. But today Peter was seeing the world with new eyes, and he noticed that Phil was attractive and fit, and his hair wasn't naturally that blond. Peter weighed him up automatically, testing his own attraction (nothing), and then turned to find Neal checking Phil out too, Peter's own expression mirrored on his face.

Neal wiped his expression blank and took a step back. "I'll get coffee," he said to Phil. "Latte?" And he vanished before Peter could decide whether to stop him.

Peter took a deep breath and turned back to Phil and the case. That was the Caffrey question answered. Peter would think about the implications later—for now he had to get his head in the game, or else someone was going to get hurt tonight.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

It wasn't exactly ironic that the someone getting hurt turned out to be Peter himself, but from where he lay—sprawled under fluorescent lights on an oil-stained concrete floor at gunpoint, maybe an hour's drive from New York, maybe more—the situation definitely had overtones of cosmic payback: Feeling something you're not supposed to? Feel _this_.

"This" being a steel-capped boot slamming into his ribs.

Pain bloomed through him, blotting out fear. He'd survived worse, but that was no guarantee he'd make it this time. Not with these guys. El would manage without him, if she had to. There'd be the life insurance payout on top of their savings, and her family would rally around. She was tough—

"Who's the leak?" growled the guy with the boots. "How'd you know about the delivery?"

Peter coughed and spat blood. "We're the FBI. 'I' for Investigation. Your boss left a trail a mile wide."

Neal, on the other hand, would be screwed if Peter didn't get himself out of this mess. No one else would take him on. He'd be right back in prison for the rest of his sentence.

"Look," said Peter, trying harder. "You want to do a deal? We can work—"

Another vicious kick, and then Peter was floating. Thank God for endorphins. The SWAT team couldn't be far off. They'd find him. He just had to hold out till then. The memory of Neal's lips warm against his was an effective distraction. Peter was in trouble there and he knew it, but at least it was a less life-threatening kind of trouble than this, which, Jesus, _ow_—

The beating stopped.

"Leave him." Peter heard footsteps, squinted toward the door and managed to ID Edward Riley. "Take his shoes. He's not going anywhere."

The goon ripped Peter's shoes off and the door slammed behind him and Riley. The bolt clacked into place. Peter flexed his leg out in front of him, gasping from the pain, and looked at his foot. Plain black socks today. Small mercies.

He forced himself to sit up, managed not to vomit, and looked around. It was the back room of a barn or a mechanic's workshop. Solid wood construction. There was a small high window—he could probably make it through if he stacked those crates, but it would be a long drop on the other side and he was in pretty bad shape. He wouldn't get far, especially not without his shoes.

Maybe he could get to a phone, though. It would beat lying here and waiting for the goon to come back.

He closed his eyes and gathered his strength, and when he opened them again, the entire window frame had vanished, leaving nothing but a square hole and night sky. One long, black-clad leg slung through the gap and then Neal was halfway inside.

"Are you crazy?" hissed Peter, staggering to his feet. "Riley's here. If he sees you, you're dead. Get out of here!"

Neal ignored him. He brought his other leg through—demonstrating impressive flexibility—and dropped lightly to the ground. "Rescue party's still ten minutes away. Come on."

Peter leaned on a crate to catch his breath. At a guess, more than one of his ribs was cracked. "How did you get here?"

Neal tossed him his own car keys in reply. "Come _on_."

Peter scowled but gave in. It'd probably cost him another broken bone or two, but it would get Neal out of harm's way. And ten minutes was plenty of time for things to go horribly wrong. And there was no reason to let MacLean use them as hostages if they didn't have to. Peter went over to the wall, waved aside Neal's narrow-eyed concern, and let Neal give him a boost.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

By some miracle, Peter reached the ground with no further injuries except for a painfully twisted ankle. Neal dropped down beside him a second later, and dragged Peter's arm across his shoulders to support him, his body hot and confusing, but somehow comforting too. They were in a semi-industrial area near some overgrown train tracks, and they half-lurched, half-hobbled to the car, which was parked down the road, behind another building.

"How come you're ten minutes ahead of them?" asked Peter, hoping conversation would take his mind off his injuries.

"I drove fast." Neal tightened his grip on Peter's arm. "Mozzie pointed me in the right direction."

They reached the car and Peter leaned against it, catching his breath. It hurt when he breathed too deeply, and his ankle throbbed, blending into the clamor of aches and pains. He'd be better once backup arrived. He dug in his pocket for his keys.

Neal held them up, his expression unreadable, and Peter glared at him before giving in and limping to the passenger side of the car. The door had an ugly crumpled dent right down it, and the window was white with cracks. "Jesus, Neal! What the hell happened to my car?"

Neal didn't answer. He slid into the driver's seat and pulled out his phone. "I've got him. He's a mess, but he'll be okay." He gave detailed directions then hung up. "Five minutes."

Peter settled gingerly into his seat. His mind's eye conjured up images of Neal speeding through the dark, skidding, the car spinning out of control, slamming into a tree or something else equally solid and unforgiving. "Are you hurt?"

"I'm in better shape than you are." Neal started the car. "Jones wants to meet us at the turnoff from the highway.

Peter leaned his head back and thought about Neal, untrained and unarmed, driving through the night and breaking into MacLean's lair like a cat burglar to rescue him. It was just like Caffrey to rush in without a second thought, but it still felt incongruous, after the more personal tensions of the day. Peter rubbed his face tiredly. "I suppose I should be grateful you didn't flirt your way in."

"Peter." Neal said it flatly, like a warning, but Peter couldn't make himself shut up.

"Is there anyone you didn't flirt with today, Casanova?"

"Yes," said Neal. "And what about you? You were checking out Mikhail, the elevator maintenance guy."

"I was _not_—" Peter bit off his reply. He didn't have to explain himself. "I'm married."

"I know that, Peter." Neal didn't look at him. "Everybody knows it. I think there's even a billboard in Times Square declaring it the marriage of the century. Just—"

"Hey, wait a minute," Peter interrupted. "What are you mad at me for? You kissed me, remember?"

Neal clenched his jaw. "We all make mistakes."

He switched on the windshield wipers, and they drove in silence for a few minutes, dark buildings giving way to empty fields. Peter reviewed the day, everything Neal had done, all he'd said and not said.

Neal pulled onto the verge and parked, and Peter looked at him tentatively. "You said you were straight."

"So did you," said Neal. And while that wasn't strictly true, even Peter could tell this wasn't the time to split hairs. Neal sighed impatiently. "I was—until now. And I've _never_ been interested in suits."

That stung. "You wear a suit!"

"Not your kind of a suit!" Neal glanced at Peter, his lips a thin line, and then looked forward again and stuck his chin out. "I'll get over it."

Peter didn't know how to answer that, so he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The radio came on, some baseball game in Florida, and then switched to music. Peter left it and breathed shallowly because it hurt less, and tried not to think.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Elizabeth arrived at the hospital while Peter was waiting to be x-rayed. The skirt of her red dress swung around her legs, and her jewelry gleamed under the hospital lights. Peter vaguely recalled she'd had a client dinner that evening.

"Are you all right?" she asked Peter, and turned to Neal before he could answer. "Is he okay? Did you catch them?"

"Jones led the SWAT team, and yeah, we got them," said Peter. "All of them, including Riley."

"He'll be fine," said Neal, his hand on El's arm. "He's bruised, probably cracked a couple of ribs, and he twisted his ankle, but no lasting damage."

She clutched his sleeve and looked up at him earnestly. "Thank you. Really."

Peter's stomach twisted, but right then an orderly came to wheel him to X-Ray, and he missed Neal's reply. When he got back, El was alone.

She waited while the orderly updated his chart and left, and then she took his hand. "Oh, Peter. Is it bad?"

"It only hurts when I breathe," he told her, hoping to win a smile, but she pressed her lips together, obviously still shaken. "I'm fine, honey," he said firmly. "Did Neal get checked out? He crashed the car—he needs to be checked over."

"I don't know." El looked around. "I'll find out. Don't you go anywhere."

She came back a few minutes later. "Neal's gone. I called him, and he said he was nearly home and he just has a couple of bruises. What did the doctor say?"

The doctor came back into the room just then. "Here's your prescription," she said to Peter. "Rest and keep your ankle elevated. And you'll probably be more comfortable if you sleep sitting up for a couple of weeks." Peter tuned her out and shut his eyes, abruptly exhausted by the events of the evening, grateful they weren't keeping him in overnight. El would remember all the important instructions. His full report on the bust could wait till tomorrow, but he should at least send in a summary tonight and check that Neal had made it home safely. Then he could sleep. He forced his eyes open again.

"Are you ready to go, honey?" asked El, and Peter nodded and let her bully him into a wheelchair.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

At home, Peter hobbled upstairs with El's help, both of them grunting and swearing. He collapsed into the armchair in the bedroom, swallowing a groan, and El disappeared for a moment and came back with the pillows from the guest room, which she stacked on Peter's side of the bed so he could sleep more or less sitting up. She gave him his painkillers with a glass of water, and waited while he took them.

"Pajamas," she said, and helped him undress, biting her lip at the sight of his bruises but not saying anything. Peter was grateful. He didn't have the energy to reassure her, and he hoped his presence—and the fact that they'd let him out of the hospital—would be enough. He settled carefully into the bed and pulled the covers up.

"I'm going to make us both some hot cocoa," said El. "Do you want anything else?"

"No, I'm good."

She heaped her jewelry carelessly on the nightstand, changed into her pajamas and robe, and went downstairs, and Peter stared vaguely at the drapes for a few minutes, then prized himself out of bed, limped painfully across the room and snagged her laptop from where it was charging on the dresser.

He took it back to bed, logged into the Bureau's network—glad he'd taken the time to install decent security on the laptop when El bought it—and wrote a brief rundown of events from his point of view, being as impartial as he could. He sent it to Jones and Hughes, closed his email and pulled up Neal's tracking data.

Neal was at home. Peter stared at the dot on Riverside Drive and thought about the undercover kiss, the rescue and everything in between and after. Then he scolded himself for mooning over a felon in his charge. He closed the laptop, leaned back, grateful that the painkillers were starting to kick in, and fell asleep.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Hughes visited the next morning, when Peter was stiff and sore, and trying his damnedest not to complain about his enforced bed rest. El made coffee and sat listening while Hughes asked questions and Peter filled in the details of how he'd been ambushed and Neal had rescued him. Peter played down the violence as much as he could, but El still looked increasingly upset.

"'Thank you' isn't enough," she burst out, when Peter had finished recounting events. "We need to do something for Neal. Can't you at least give him a commendation?"

"To a felon on parole?" Hughes shook his head. "The Bureau would never risk it—not in this political climate." He raised his eyebrows at Peter. "We could potentially knock some time off his sentence."

Peter thought that through and frowned. "Neal really doesn't need another incentive to pull bone-headed stunts."

"That bone-headed stunt might have saved your life, Peter." Hughes drummed his thumb against his knee, considering the matter, and cleared his throat. "I'm going to recommend a three month reduction of his parole."

Peter nodded. Far be it from him to stop the Bureau from expressing its gratitude to Neal and moving him one inch closer to freedom. "Just make sure you emphasize this won't be a regular occurrence, will you? I don't want him throwing himself in harm's way to whittle down his sentence even further."

Hughes agreed and stood up to leave. El gathered up the coffee cups and saw him out. When she came back, she found Peter limping out of the bedroom. "Dammit, Peter! What part of 'rest and elevate' don't you understand?"

"I'm just going to the bathroom," he said, but he stopped and put his hand on her shoulder. "Come here."

Even though she hugged him gently, it still hurt like hell, but Peter ignored the pain and held her close. "I'm okay," he murmured into the top of her head. "And I'm only going to work on boring, safe cases for the next few months, I promise."

She sniffed against his shoulder. "You'd better." And then, looking up with a tremulous smile, "That'll drive Neal out of his mind."

Peter kissed her. "Yeah, we need to talk about that, but first I really have to—"

"—go to the bathroom?" she finished, her eyes crinkling.

He nodded, brushed his thumb across her cheek—"I love you, El."—and went to do just that.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

That afternoon, Peter was in bed, listening to a game, dozing and half-heartedly reading a novel his sister had given him for Christmas two years earlier, when El brought him the phone. "It's Neal."

Peter took it, weighed it in his hand a moment and raised it to his ear. "Checking up on me?"

El winked at Peter and left him to it.

"Just making sure you're still alive." Neal sounded cheerful and breezy, his usual self.

"I'm still breathing," said Peter, relieved they seemed to be back on safe ground. He dog-eared the corner of the page and closed his book.

"Good," said Neal. "June sends her best. And, uh, Elizabeth invited me over for dinner on Friday."

"Okay." That was four days away. Peter was pretty sure he'd be up and about by then, and wouldn't have to entertain Neal in his bedroom.

There was a pause before Neal spoke again. "I suppose it's too much to hope that you didn't tell her about—everything."

Peter grimaced to himself. "You know El and me," he said, carefully. "We talk."

"I know." Neal's breeziness gave way to gravity. "Is she mad?"

"She invited you to dinner, didn't she?" Peter wished he could see Neal's face, gauge his reactions properly. In the absence of that, he did the best he could. "She's not mad. Mostly she's grateful to you for getting me out of MacLean's clutches. Thanks for that, by the way."

"No problem," said Neal. "Forget it."

Peter nodded, kidding himself it would be that easy. "Oh, I spoke with Jones—he's going to take you on while I'm out of action. I've authorized it."

"But—" Neal's frown was audible. "Okay."

"I want you to go easy on him." Peter dragged his thumbnail across the page edges of his book. "Try to stay out of trouble."

"I'll do my best," said Neal, and for once, Peter thought he sounded sincere about it.

"Okay," Peter said, his voice unintentionally soft. "Well, I'll see you Friday, then." It sounded like a date. He closed his eyes, told himself to stop being an idiot and hung up before he could incriminate himself any further. He was an adult and a professional. He was perfectly capable of ignoring an ill-timed attraction and being friends with the man anyway. He was.

Satch came into the bedroom and dropped a rubber bone on the floor by Peter's side of the bed, then looked up at him expectantly. Peter rolled his eyes and hoped he was at least less transparent in his affections than his dog.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

On Wednesday, Peter talked to Jones. "Is Neal behaving himself?"

"Yeah, he's doing good," said Jones. "And we've got a solid lead on the Sondheim case."

"Glad to hear it," said Peter. He was already itching to be in on it, to take part in the discussions, turn the clues over and over, and solve the mystery, but he told himself he was glad they were getting by without him. "I'll be back next week, on reduced hours."

"Does Mrs. Burke know that?" asked Jones, a smile in his voice.

Peter grinned too. "I'll clear it with her first, don't you worry."

The rest of the week was tedious. El was working from home so she could look after him, but she had a lot to do, so Peter was pretty much on his own with a random selection of novels, the television—which El had moved into the bedroom for him—and the internet. Even juggling all three at once, he got bored.

He logged into work and tried to dig around for information about Fowler and whoever else was behind Mentor, but he couldn't find anything, so he ended up watching Rat Pack videos on youtube for a couple of hours instead, and wishing he could take Satchmo for a run.

On Friday afternoon, Peter showered, took more painkillers and then got dressed and went downstairs for the first time in what felt like weeks. El's work was spread out across the dining table, a couple of the chairs and the floor around her—brochures and menus and venue information, quotes and proposals—and she waved when she saw him, but she seemed to be alternating between two or three different phone calls. Peter waved back and retreated to the couch. He propped his sore ankle on the coffee table, wincing as the move pulled his still-bruised back muscles, but feeling better just from being out of bed.

Neal turned up at six-thirty. He was wearing a dark blue shirt, open at the neck, and he handed El a bottle of wine, said yes to her offer of a glass and came to stand by the couch. "Look at you, up and about," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I should tell Hughes you're malingering."

"I wish." Peter pointed at his foot. "This is giving me more trouble than the ribs." And then, before Neal could think to take that as a criticism, he said, "Sit down and fill me in on the Sondheim case. What have we got?"

Neal sat in the armchair, stretched his legs out and pulled a face. "It's the weekend, Peter. And aren't you supposed to be resting?"

"I didn't sprain my brain," said Peter. "Come on. Bring me up to date." So Neal laid out the case and where they'd got to with the surveillance, and Peter nodded and asked questions, and it was like waking up, after being asleep all week. "I bet you a hundred bucks there's something in his office. Something incriminating—if we could only get in there."

"You can't even leave your house," Neal reminded him and looked up, smiling in thanks, when El handed him a glass of red wine.

The smile made Peter's stomach lurch, but he clung to the normalcy of their interactions so far. Neal had apparently got over their thing, just like he'd said he would; if he could, so could Peter. "Don't I get a glass?" he asked El.

"Not with those painkillers," said El. "Sorry, honey, you're on the wagon tonight." She tilted her head in sympathy. "Dinner won't be long." And she went back to the kitchen.

"By the way," said Peter, pointing at Neal, "that speculation about Sondheim's office was not encouragement for you to go and find out for yourself. I mean it."

"And that isn't reverse psychology, either, I suppose." Neal raised an amused eyebrow. "It's okay. I'm under strict instructions not to do anything to raise your blood pressure." He studied the wine in his glass. "Jones is keeping me busy."

"There's nothing wrong with my blood pressure." Peter stared, then had to look away from Neal's gaze, bland as it was. He called Satchmo over and rubbed his head to cover. "Instructions from who?"

Neal grinned. "Where do I start? Hughes, Jones, Cruz, Elizabeth. Even June suggested I might want to practice some restraint for a while, so as not to stunt your recovery."

"Jesus." Peter snorted. "No wonder things have been so boring—" He broke off, scowling at Neal's laugh. "That wasn't an invitation to wreak—"

"Peter." Neal leaned forward. "Would you relax? Jones is at the wheel. I'm not your problem for once."

"You're always my problem," muttered Peter, and regretted it as soon as Neal's gaze narrowed. There were a lot of things Peter could have said to explain himself—the executive committee overseeing Neal's probation was both bureaucratic and risk averse, and Peter certainly wasn't putting Jones in the position where he had to answer to their frequent demands for results—but it was easier to gruffly wave the misstep aside and let Neal change the subject, which he did after a brief pause.

He filled Peter in on the arraignments of MacLean and his accomplices, and then the kind of office gossip that Peter never heard, even when he was at work. "Who's Marty?" he asked, baffled.

El interrupted, coming through with two plates. "Dinner's ready. Nothing fancy, I'm afraid, and we're eating in here."

"I can sit at the table," said Peter.

She gave him his plate and patted his shoulder. "I know, honey, but you'll be more comfortable here. I'm sure Neal won't mind if we don't stand on ceremony."

"Not at all," said Neal promptly, accepting his plate. "This looks delicious."

El went and got her own plate and the wine bottle, and Peter sat back and watched them as he ate, enjoying their easy conversation, the way both of them included him—Neal with a glance, El with a light touch on his arm or his knee—even when the conversation strayed to European cinema and other topics far beyond his interest.

"Oh, Bergman," said Elizabeth, laughing. "Though _The Seventh Seal_ was never really my style."

"Is that the one with the chess?" asked Peter.

"Yeah," said Neal, and looked to Elizabeth. "Do you play?"

"A little." Her eyes sparked. "Want to?"

"Now?" Neal raised his eyebrows. "Sure."

El took the empty plates to the kitchen and got the chess set out from beside the fax machine. "I'll be disappointed if it takes you more than twenty moves to beat me, by the way. Peter can do it in a dozen."

"Is that so?" said Neal, meeting Peter's eye over the rim of his glass.

Peter shrugged. "She gets bored and tries to multitask. It's her weakness."

El sat down beside him and smacked his arm lightly. "That was one time, and you'd already won."

"Twice," Peter told her, "and I hadn't."

El grinned at Neal. "It's not really my game."

"What is?" He looked intrigued.

"I could crush you at Scrabble," said El.

"She was a pool shark in college too," said Peter, watching as El set up the board and held out a pawn in each fist. Neal chose her left, which was white.

"No holding back," said El. She played aggressively, taking a lot of pieces like she always did, and Neal declared checkmate in nineteen moves. Peter was pretty sure he'd been holding back.

El poured herself another glass of wine and emptied the rest of the bottle into Neal's glass. "You really should play Peter. He's much better than me."

Neal turned his gaze on Peter. "How about it?"

Peter couldn't resist the challenge. "Okay. Set it up."

"You're stoned on painkillers and I've had two and a half glasses of cabernet," Neal pointed out as he lined up the pieces. "It's hardly going to be conclusive."

"Is two and a half glasses enough to impair your judgment?" asked El, curiously.

Neal shrugged, his expression seemingly candid. "Probably not."

"Are you up for this?" El asked Peter, and he took her hand and nodded.

She kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet up under her, giving him a soft smile. "If you get tired, I'm going to turn into the bossy mom who sends your friends home and puts you to bed. But until then, I'll be your cheerleader girlfriend."

"In that case, Satch has to be my mascot," said Neal, leaning forward to rub Satchmo's fur. "Don't you? Otherwise they're ganging up on me, and it's not fair."

"The mascot's all yours," said Peter, hiding the warmth of his reaction, the feeling that Neal was becoming part of his family.

Neal took two pawns and held out his fists.

"Are you doing some kind of magic trick?" asked Peter. "No? Then, left."

Neal opened his left hand to reveal the black pawn, and they started playing. Peter had to call out his moves, since he couldn't lean forward, and it quickly became apparent that he was outmatched, but he'd always played a strong defensive game and he managed to keep Neal at bay for longer than he expected. It was nearly ten when Neal said, "Checkmate."

"Good game," said Peter.

Neal nodded and started packing away the pieces. "You gave me a run for my money. We should try it again when you aren't under the influence."

"I didn't sprain my brain," said Peter, but he sounded tired, even to his own ears.

He stifled a yawn, and El saw and shook her head. "I know it's still early, but I'm going to have to call it a night."

"Of course." Neal stood up to put the chess set away, shelving it exactly where it had been, as if he'd memorized every detail of their home. He'd probably cased the place the first day he turned up with his charmer's smile and Hagen's Spanish bond.

"I'll call you a cab," said El, and went for the phone, leaving them alone.

"Satchmo makes a good mascot," said Neal, into the silence. "Maybe he can take it up professionally."

"He can support us in our old age," agreed Peter, and then stopped, wondering if Neal would misinterpret that. "El and me, I mean."

Neal gave him a complicated look, part rueful, part impatient, two parts oblique. "I knew what you meant."

"Neal—"

"Peter, it's been a nice evening," Neal interrupted. "Don't say anything to spoil it."

Peter closed his mouth, duly warned, and nodded. "It's been a nice evening."

It seemed like an understatement, but perhaps it was enough. Neal gave him a lopsided smile.

El came in. "They'll be here in a minute."

A car horn sounded outside. Neal thanked El for dinner, said goodnight to Satchmo and the two of them, and left.

"Come on," said El to Peter, pulling him to his feet. "You'll beat him next time. Right now, you look like a man who needs a good night's sleep."  
 

* * * * *

  
 

The next morning, El rolled over in bed and said, "So, last night was fun."

"I thought so too." Peter started to turn to face her, but his ribs were still too sore for that kind of maneuvering.

She realized and sat up so she was facing him. "Honey, would you ever consider letting someone else into our marriage?" She took his hand. "Someone we both loved?"

Peter's heart skipped a couple of beats, but he kept his expression dry. "Describe this hypothetical person."

"Oh, you know," said El, grinning. "Attractive, smart, witty—just like us."

Peter smiled back. "And?"

El raised her eyebrows, a small crease between them.

"Does this person steal expensive works of art and wear a hat?" asked Peter, already sure of her answer.

But she surprised him, laughing. "Oh, honey, I didn't mean Neal. I mean, yes, he made me think of it—last night was, well, it felt like family, you know? It was lovely. But you're his handler." She patted his arm. "I know he's off-limits."

"And being friends isn't enough?" Peter searched her face. "What's missing?"

"Nothing's missing," she said, earnestly. "Really. I'm happy. I was just thinking about it—theoretically."

Peter wasn't sure whether to be relieved or disappointed. "I hate to let you down, El, but I've only ever been attracted to one guy."

El tilted her head and gave him a mischievous look. "It wouldn't have to be a man."

"I, uh." Peter blinked. "Is there something you need to tell me?"

She grinned. "I think I just did. And I wouldn't love you any less—you know that." She squeezed his arm again and got up. "Think about it, okay? I'm going to take a shower."

Peter took a few moments to assimilate all this new information: not only was his wife of ten years attracted to women, but she was floating the idea of loving someone else. Of not being exclusive. It was unexpected but he was surprised to find that it wasn't shocking. She'd been so accepting about his own confusion over Neal. He turned her idea over in his head, and when she came back, damp and robed, with a towel wrapped about her hair, he said, "Okay, in theory, if we both loved someone, I don't see why we wouldn't—try. But I can't imagine that actually happening. Can you?"

She bent to kiss him. "I know, honey. You fall in love about once a century. But maybe we just haven't met the right person."

"El?" Peter got a sense of foreboding. "Are you planning something?"

"I organize people for a living, Peter. I can't help it!" She fluttered her eyelashes at him and went to get dressed, and he rubbed his face and wondered what the hell he'd just let himself in for.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Nothing happened right away. Peter's injuries slowly healed, and he went back to work part-time and almost forgot about the conversation.

Neal was still on his best behavior—which couldn't last much longer—but other than that, things were nearly normal between them, except that Peter kept himself constantly on guard, careful not to get too close or say anything too personal. But even with that self-imposed distance, more and more, he was realizing how much he _liked_ Neal. How he'd pick him over pretty much anyone else in the office, how satisfying it was to work with someone with such quick understanding, whose jokes resonated with Peter's sense of humor and who could teach Peter a thing or two, now and then.

Peter didn't know how to reconcile this Neal Caffrey, displaying concern for the underdog and projecting a nice-guy persona, with who he'd been before and all the crimes he'd committed. It was impossible to be sure Neal wasn't just conning them all, maybe not even consciously.

If he was, it was working.

The surveillance on Sondheim gave them enough evidence for a search warrant for his office, and Peter was gratified to find conclusive proof of illegal activity there, as he'd predicted. More cases came and went. Their solve rate continued to skyrocket.

One Monday afternoon, when Peter was back full-time and his ribs were nearly healed, and he'd put the whole MacLean incident behind him, El rang. "Can you talk?"

Peter was alone in his office. "Yeah. What's up?"

"Are you free on Thursday night?" She sounded keyed up. "I just made us a date."

"A—oh. Okay." Peter stood up and went to the window, looking out at the street below. Normal people leading normal lives. "Wasn't part of the point of getting married that we wouldn't have to date anymore?"

"Honey, we don't have to do this," said El, immediately. "I can cancel if you want."

"No, no, it's fine." Peter was determined to give her plan a decent chance. "It's good. Thursday." He went back to his desk and wrote a cryptic reminder on his blotter, then looked up to see Neal leaning in the doorway, file in hand. "You can tell me all about it tonight."

"Okay, honey," said El. "And try not to worry. I really think you'll like her."

Peter hung up and suppressed the urge to cover his eyes. He'd never been good at dating.

"I've found some discrepancies in the Radford file," said Neal. "Given Aiden Scott's involvement, they might tie into—"

"—the Williston case," said Peter. This could be the break they needed. He motioned Neal to pull up a chair. "Show me."  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Peter and his team spent Thursday afternoon in the conference room, wading through nearly twenty boxes of files from the Williston case, trying to gather enough evidence for a search warrant. It was nearly six before Peter realized it. "I have to go," he said, and looked around the room at the others, tired and dedicated. "Good work, everyone. We'll pick up tomorrow."

"You're leaving before six?" asked Neal, raising his eyebrows. "Is there a special occasion we should know about?"

Peter quelled him with a glance. "We have a—reservations," he said, and strode into his office to grab his jacket. "Dammit, I'm going to be late."

In fact, he was only ten minutes late. He hurried into the restaurant, looked around and saw El sitting at a corner table with a redhead about her age, and waved off the maître d'. He took a deep breath and went over. "Sorry," he said. "I got held up at work. You must be Kaz."

He shook her hand and took the third seat at the table, sitting with his back to the rest of the room. El looked relaxed and beautiful as ever, and Peter decided maybe this wouldn't be such an ordeal after all. At least this time he wasn't dating on his own, and El liked meeting new people.

El had met Kaz through a friend of Yvonne's, and all Peter knew about her was that she worked in an art gallery and she'd been in a relationship with a couple before. He hadn't known what to expect, but she seemed perfectly normal, despite her numerous earrings.

"Peter's always working late," El told her, smiling. "You get used to it. Tell us about your gallery."

"It's good to have work that keeps you engaged," Kaz said, including them both. "My partner Michelle and I started up the gallery about eight months ago, but we're still struggling for funding. You know how it is: everyone wants community projects, but no one wants to pay for them. The idea is that we provide materials and cheap studio space for local artists to work, and we subsidize it with the profits from our display gallery, which is about fifty-fifty recognized artists and locals. It's an interesting mix."

"It sounds amazing," said El. "I used to work for Robin Rice—do you know her place?"

A waiter came to take their drink orders, and the conversation moved on.

By the time their entrees arrived, Peter was convinced that Kaz was an admirable and upstanding person, and equally sure he felt nothing romantic toward her. Still, only another hour or two and this would be over. He pasted on a smile and said, as the conversation lagged, "Read any good books lately?"

El grinned at him and explained to Kaz, "Peter spent some time recovering from an injury recently. I think he read everything in the house."

"I haven't read much lately," said Kaz. She ate a bite of her lasagna. "I stopped going to the library when they brought in the Patriot Act. The idea of the government being able to find out what I'm reading just gave me the creeps. There's a secondhand bookstore near the gallery that I've been meaning to check out, though."

Peter looked up from his steak, but before he could say anything, El intervened.

"Peter actually works for the FBI," she said, mildly.

"Oh," said Kaz, and looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "Angela didn't mention that. So how do you feel about working with such invasive legislation? Does it bother you?"

Peter took a mouthful of wine, and they launched into a no-holds-barred discussion of the importance of criminal investigations versus preserving civil liberties.

Kaz was very well-informed. When Elizabeth ventured to point this out, she said, "My partner Michelle used to be in the military. I learned a lot about politics from her."

"Is she your—" El tilted her head. "—your girlfriend?"

Kaz nodded. "We have an open relationship. Sorry, I thought Angela would have told you that."

In Peter's private opinion, Angela (who he presumed was the friend of Yvonne who'd set them up) had screwed up on several counts, but at least Kaz wasn't shy about setting them straight. Peter, who'd long since given up on this as a date, decided to make the best of it as a fact-finding operation. "She did say that you've dated a couple before. Do you mind me asking how that worked?"

"We're kind of new to this," El chimed in. She covered Peter's hand and gave it a comforting squeeze.

"Oh, I—" Kaz looked from El to Peter, then back again. She shook her head and then covered her eyes for a moment, before looking up, her poise restored. "Angela isn't usually a space cadet, but she's in the process of buying an apartment, and all she can think about are interest rates and parquet floors." She shrugged. "I'm gay. I was involved with a married woman for nearly a year." She glanced at Peter. "Which her husband knew about. We were all friends, but I—" She shrugged. "I'm gay."

"Oh," said El. "Well, that's—"

_A relief,_ thought Peter.

"—not really what you had in mind," said Kaz, with a wry smile.

Forty-five minutes later, in the car on the way home with El, Peter reviewed the evening. "It wasn't even that I disagreed with her about the Patriot Act," he said, "but she was so—"

"Earnest?" said El, grinning. "It's okay, honey. She wasn't the one for us, for any number of reasons." She put her hand on his arm. "Still, it was interesting, don't you think? I had a pretty good time."

"It was interesting," agreed Peter cautiously. There was a whole world of complicated relationships out there, and he'd learned a lot about it, just from one dinner with Kaz. What he hadn't found out was whether there was a place for him in that world—but it had certainly piqued his curiosity. He gave El a smile and told himself it was too soon to know anything for sure.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Peter tried to listen to the news in the car on the way to work the next morning, but his head was too busy. He switched off the radio and thought about the night before.

He felt weird about the date. They hadn't done anything illegal or immoral, and there was no reason to be embarrassed about it, but it still made Peter feel as if he were in a gray area of secrets and social discomfort. There was no way he could go into work and mention the date over coffee to Hughes or Jones or even Neal. Especially not Neal.

Not that Peter talked about his home life that much anyway, but that was usually because there was nothing to say.

He'd never really thought about being respectable, had always taken it for granted. He was a conventional guy: he didn't rock the boat, he had a good education, a good job, a wife, a house. Life had always been easy and straightforward—until now.

The thing was, discovering he was attracted to Neal hadn't made Peter feel less like himself. Those feelings were a part of him, a natural extension. He'd accepted them for what they were (inescapable but inappropriate), deemed them relatively harmless and was doing pretty well at ignoring them. But actively looking to include a third person—a stranger—into his marriage was something else again. It was like asking to be in the closet. It was unsettling.

He met El for lunch in a diner near her office. "Honey, did you tell anyone else about us dating other people?" he asked in an undertone.

"A few. Why—would you rather I didn't? It's kind of hard to meet people if you can't say that you're looking." She took a bite of her sandwich. There was a little crease on her forehead that Peter wanted to kiss away.

"No, no, I know," he said. "I just wouldn't want anyone to think anything was wrong with us. With our marriage."

"Oh, Peter." El leaned in, her smile warm. "No one who knows us could ever think that." She flicked the tip of his nose. "I love you. Oh, and I talked to Angela. She was really apologetic about all the crossed wires, last night, but she's signed the mortgage documents, so maybe her head will settle back on her shoulders now. Anyway, she said she knows someone else who we might like. A guy called David. Apparently he likes suits." She raised her eyebrows hopefully.

Peter told himself to cowboy up. El wanted them to give this a try, and maybe Peter just hadn't met the right guy yet. "Sounds worth a shot. Why not?"  
 

* * * * *

  
 

That afternoon the Williston case broke open and everything went into overdrive. El called at three and said, "How's next Friday for dinner with David?" and Peter said, "Next Friday's fine, but I'm going to be late tonight. Don't wait up."

"Okay," said El. "Be careful."

They'd found out that Williston was planning to attend a private event at an auction house that evening. Cruz and Jones managed to acquire an invitation, so Neal went undercover as a shady antiques dealer specializing in Victorian miniatures, and Peter spent most of the evening in the surveillance van with Cruz and Jones, while Neal made small talk in his ear.

All Neal had to do was set up a meeting with Williston for Monday to buy some of his stolen pieces—at Williston's unofficial base, location unknown—but apparently it was a difficult crowd to work, even for Neal. It sounded like everyone knew everyone else, and it was over an hour before Neal managed to get an introduction to Williston.

Unfortunately Murphy's law was in play: within minutes, one of the other guests recognized Neal and blew his cover. There was a loud crash—quite possibly priceless antiques—and a gunshot. Peter didn't wait for more.

"Go!" he yelled, and led the charge inside.

The takedown was over quickly and went with only three hitches: two statuettes and a nineteenth century vase were damaged, an elderly woman cut her hand on a broken wineglass and required first aid, and Williston's bodyguard shoved Neal aside hard enough that he tripped over the remains of the vase and slammed his head into the side of an oak display case. He looked dazed but he was still on his feet, and Peter had to concentrate on arresting the guys with the guns—including Randal Williston—and sending them downtown with Cruz and Jones, so it wasn't until he and Neal were in the car that Peter got a chance to check up on him.

"Are you okay? How's your head?"

"Cognac," said Neal, rubbing his forehead. He sounded tired, almost drunk. "Elizabeth is all right?"

"What?" Peter sat up straight. "Elizabeth, my wife?"

"No one wanted Christmas this year, anyway," said Neal, frowning.

"Neal, look at me." Peter turned on the car's interior light and studied him. His pupils were dilated.

Neal shook his head, then winced, blocking the light with his hand. "Ow. Eighth of a GPS, plus Botticelli."

Peter switched off the light again and started the car. "You have a concussion. Come on, I'm taking you to the hospital."  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Neal was lucid by the time they got to the hospital and said he just wanted to go home, but there was no way Peter was letting him go without getting checked out. He used his bossy voice and took him inside, where they had to wait to see a doctor, and Neal didn't try to charm or flirt with anyone.

Peter stretched his legs out, leaned back in the uncomfortable plastic seat and closed his eyes for a minute. When he opened them, Neal was watching him, his face a mask.

"What?" asked Peter.

Neal held his gaze. "Nothing." His pupils were still dilated.

The doctor asked him a litany of questions, which he answered easily enough, and checked his reflexes and coordination, before sending him home with instructions that someone should wake him a couple of times in the night, and to return if the symptoms persisted more than a few days.

Back in the car, Peter said, "Is there anyone at June's who can keep an eye on you?"

"Mozzie," said Neal, closing his eyes.

"Okay," said Peter, but when they got there just after midnight, Neal's room was empty, and the rest of the household was asleep.

Neal looked dead on his feet. He got out his phone. "Where are you? Why Chicago? Oh, right. Nothing, don't worry. Yeah. Later."

He hung up, and he and Peter looked at each other.

"I'm not leaving you here alone, and I'm not sleeping on your couch," said Peter. "It was bad enough last time. Get your pajamas and your toothbrush. I'm taking you home."

"Peter," said Neal, sounding tired and uncharacteristically whiny, "I just need to sleep. I'll be fine. You don't have to worry about me."

"You can sleep in the car," said Peter, ruthlessly. This was probably a terrible idea, but he couldn't think what else to do. June already did too much for Neal, and Alex the fence would have been a long shot, even if Peter had been able to contact her.

And Peter wanted to look after Neal. He wanted him safe and close—which was why this was a terrible idea. He rubbed his forehead, and when he looked up, Neal was still standing there, watching him, his eyes soft.

"Go on." Peter waved him toward the bed. "Toothbrush. Pajamas. Change of clothes. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner you can sleep."

"Right," said Neal. He took a deep breath, as if he needed to summon the energy to move. "Okay." And he went to get his things.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Peter shepherded Neal in the front door. "Guest room's the first door on your right. Do you need anything?"

"Stop fussing. I'm fine." Neal tucked his satchel under his arm and trudged upstairs with none of his usual bounce.

Peter watched, concerned and vaguely offended by the accusation of fussing. When Neal was out of sight, Peter started toward the kitchen for a drink of water and saw El dozing on the couch in front of the TV, the volume so low he hadn't noticed it was on.

Peter sat next to her and bent to kiss her.

She blinked her eyes open and smiled sleepily. "Hi there. It's late."

"I did say not to wait up," Peter reminded her.

She picked up the remote and stopped the movie. "I know, but it's the first time you've been out since you got hurt."

He put his arm around her. "I know. I love you."

"How'd it go?" She leaned into him, still half-asleep. "Did you get the guy?"

"He pulled a gun in a crowded room. We got him for that but we blew the case, and Neal hit his head in the take-down and got a concussion." Peter smoothed her hair. "He's staying here tonight. I have to wake him and make sure he's okay."

El nodded and yawned. "Let's go to bed."

Peter set the alarm on his phone for three, turned down the ringer so it was less likely to wake Elizabeth and fell asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

When his alarm went, he was sure he'd only been asleep for a few minutes. He struggled upright and went through to the guest room, feeling self-conscious and awkward but determined to do his duty. The curtains were open, and streetlights washed the room in sodium orange. Neal was asleep on his side, his hair falling onto his forehead, his breathing quiet and even.

Peter crouched down and shook him gently by the shoulder. "Neal?"

His eyes fluttered open. "Peter?" He sounded confused.

Peter let go and sat back on his heels. "Do you know where you are?"

"I hit my head," said Neal. "I'm at your house."

"Do you have a headache?"

Neal raised his eyebrows. "Not tonight, Josephine." He met Peter's gaze and a small wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "No headache."

"Okay, good. You can go back to sleep." Peter started to get up, but Neal muttered something and Peter crouched down again. "What?"

"I said, I never wanted anyone I couldn't have before," said Neal indistinctly. "It sucks."

Peter's stomach flip-flopped. If that meant what it sounded like, Neal wasn't over this thing either. On the other hand, it sounded like it was hurting his pride more than anything else. Typical Caffrey. "It's supposed to be character-building," Peter told him.

Neal pulled a face. "Character is vastly overrated."

Peter sympathized completely, but there was nothing to be done about it. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Neal squinted at him. "Huh?"

"You're not usually this—" Peter waved his hand. "—forthcoming."

"You don't usually wake me in the middle of the night," said Neal. "My guard is down. Forget it and go back to bed, Peter. Elizabeth'll think you got lost."

Peter did as he was told, reset his alarm and then lay awake, listening to El's breathing and thinking about Neal sleeping just through the wall. Neal with his lean body and his quick smile. Neal who still wanted him. Peter cast his mind back over the last few weeks—in retrospect, there was nothing to say that Neal knew the attraction was mutual. He might well be assuming he was alone in this—the thing—just like Peter had presumed Neal was over it.

Of course, if Neal didn't know, that was for the best—knowing would only fuel the problem, add tension to their working relationship. Neal would probably find a way to use it against him. But still, it was irritating not to know for sure.

It was harder to wake the second time. Sleep was a fog, and it took him a minute to shut off the alarm. He was just about to get up through sheer force of will when El caught his arm. "It's okay, honey. I'll go."

Peter sank gratefully back into his dream and slept till morning.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Peter half-woke when El kissed him and extricated herself from his arms. "I'm taking Satchmo out," she said.

The room was light, but it was still early for a Saturday, and Peter couldn't quite get his eyes to stay open. He didn't wake up properly till after eight-thirty. He pulled on track pants and a t-shirt, and went downstairs to see what was going on.

Voices and the smell of coffee were coming from the kitchen. Peter collected the paper from the front doorstep and silently pushed open the kitchen door. He stood there unnoticed while Neal turned a pancake onto a plate and slid it and the maple syrup across the breakfast bar to El, who was perched on a stool, frowning thoughtfully at the Scrabble board.

Neal seemed to have made himself right at home.

El poured syrup on her pancake and then looked at Neal and tilted her head. "How did you used to dress, before June gave you her husband's suits?"

"Before the orange jumpsuits?" Neal poured more batter into the pan and shrugged. "Nothing fancy. A lot of uniforms."

"Uniforms?" El's eyebrows went up.

"Security, courier, janitor." Neal looked at her. "You'd be amazed what you can get away with. They're like cloaks of invisibility. And they're cheap."

She grinned. "So, the exact opposite of your current wardrobe."

"Pretty much," said Neal with laughter in his voice. "There are advantages to being seen, too."

Peter felt something contract in his chest, leaving him breathless. Then El saw him and winked, and Neal looked around, his expression warm and open for a few seconds before his mask came down and he turned back to the stove.

Peter got himself a cup of coffee, sat next to El and surveyed the Scrabble board. "Who's winning?"

"Who do you think?" said El, and put down EQUIP.

Neal pushed a pancake across to Peter and nodded. "She's crushing me."

"Oh, this should be fun," said Peter, and settled in to watch.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Neal stayed most of the day, slotting easily into their plans. He even came with them to the supermarket, and while Peter tried to absorb the surrealism of shopping with El and Neal as if the three of them were a household, El and Neal kept up a smart back-and-forth, poking fun at each other's grocery choices and having a high old time. Peter held back, too aware that on Monday morning he had to be able to pull rank on Neal, and that any liberties Neal took in the office would be quickly noted by Hughes and Peter's team. It made him awkward and off his game, and that only emphasized—in his own mind, at least—the decade or so that separated him from Neal and El.

But that was a depressing thought, and he put it firmly aside and tried to join in the fun within safe limits.

Around four, El invited Neal to stay for dinner, at which point he seemed to realize the time. He politely excused himself and departed soon after, declining Peter's offer of a ride and leaving the house quiet.

Peter went upstairs to do some of the weekend chores he'd put off from the morning, but he abandoned the bathroom mid-clean and came down again in search of El. She was sorting through the clutter on the coffee table.

Peter sat in the armchair facing her, pulled off the rubber gloves he was still wearing, and said, "El, you know this date with Dave on Friday."

"David," said El, looking up. She straightened a stack of Newsweek magazines and pushed her hair back from her face. "What about it?"

"There's no point," said Peter, bluntly. "I'm not going to meet someone on a date and fall in love." He leaned forward. "But if you want to— I know I spend a lot of evenings working and if you want to spend time with someone else, that's only fair."

El studied him, her forehead creased. "That's not what we agreed."

"I know. I'm sorry," said Peter, helplessly. "I'm in love with you, and I have a—a thing—for Neal. I just—I don't have room for anyone else."

El abandoned the magazines, came over and settled herself in his lap. She put her arm around his neck. "I know what you mean."

Peter leaned sideways so he could see her face. "What are you saying? El?"

She gave him an apologetic half-smile. "He's _Neal_, you know? He's—" She waved her hand expressively. "He _fits_."

Peter didn't know whether to be concerned or relieved. "Oh great," he said. "We have a rock solid marriage based on mutual trust and respect, and a shared obsession with Neal Caffrey."

El laughed. "You say that like it's a bad thing." Then she sighed and snuggled against his shoulder. "I know we can't act on it, but I think you're right. It's silly for us to keep looking, when we're never going to find what we want."

Peter touched her cheek and waited until she met his gaze. "I've got most of what I want right here," he told her.

She smiled softly. "I know. I love you too."  
 

* * * * *

  
 

For the next week, Neal seemed to be going out of his way to try Peter's patience. He was aloof when Peter needed him to charm people, distracted when they were examining crime scenes, and polite but monosyllabic when they were in the car together and Peter was exerting himself to make conversation. Peter did his best to cut him slack, given the concussion and everything else, but his desire to grab Neal by the shoulders and shake him was growing daily.

When they were in step, it was magic, but with the undercurrents between them, neither of them seemed able to hit their stride. Jones even took Peter aside to ask if anything was wrong.

It came to a head on Thursday afternoon when Neal asked Judy Carmichael out to dinner.

Peter yanked him aside. "What the hell are you doing?"

"What?" Neal frowned. "I can invite someone to dinner. You don't get to—"

"Not when we're about to arrest her father for fraud, you can't," said Peter in a furious undertone. He was about half an inch from snapping completely. He couldn't tell anymore how much it was professional frustration and how much personal, but he knew if he didn't take precautionary measures, he was going to cross a line and do something he couldn't come back from. "Go and wait in the car."

"Peter, I don't even—" Neal was all set to argue.

"Now," said Peter sharply, pulling rank. If they made a scene, it could jeopardize the arrest, and Peter did not want to have to explain that to the executive committee.

Neal inhaled sharply, settled his hat on his head and headed for the door without looking left or right. Peter counted to ten and turned back to the situation at hand.

Twenty minutes later, when he led Samuel Carmichael out in cuffs while Jones and Cruz lugged the relevant boxes of files from Carmichael's home office, the car was empty. Peter shoved Carmichael into a waiting SUV and scanned the street. "Jones, have you seen Caffrey?"

Jones shook his head.

Peter took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Neal had probably gone home to sulk. Once Peter was through processing Carmichael, he'd check the anklet.

But by the time Peter was through with Carmichael, it was nearly seven and he had a splitting headache. He was in no condition to be fair or reasonable. He packed up, called it a night and went home to Elizabeth. He could deal with Neal tomorrow.

It was something of a shock, then, to walk in his own front door and find his wife and Neal embracing in the middle of the living room. "It's not easy for any of us," El was saying against Neal's shoulder.

Peter dropped his coat and briefcase where he stood and put his hands on his hips. "El? What's going on?"

El and Neal broke apart at once, and Neal held up his hands. "It's not what it looks like," he said.

Peter shook his head, which only aggravated his headache. He rubbed his temple. "El?"

She winced and took a step toward him. "Honey, we need to talk."

Peter stared at her. He couldn't believe she was forcing his hand like this. They'd had an agreement that Neal was off-limits. There hadn't been any ambiguity or wiggle room, and Peter was frustrated and sore and not in any mood to renegotiate tonight.

That must have shown on his face, because El bit her lip and said, "Neal, maybe you could take Satch out for a little while."

Neal looked to Peter, deferring to him, and Peter pressed his lips together, nodded and waved him toward the door, and then went into the kitchen in search of aspirin. He heard the murmur of voices. Satchmo barked and the back door shut. When Peter went back into the living room, El was alone, standing in the middle of the room looking resolute.

"Well?" asked Peter, trying not to glower or assume the worst.

El came over and put her hand on his arm. "I told him everything." She didn't even sound apologetic.

Peter stiffened. "How could you?"

"It was a judgment call," said El. "Peter, he was—"

"It was a betrayal of trust!" Peter pulled away and started pacing the room, flushing with shame as the implications sank in: Neal knew how Peter felt, and there was no way to reverse that now. The next time Peter needed to give him an order or rein him in, the knowledge would be right there in Neal's eyes, taunting him—or worse, inviting him to take advantage, so that Peter would have to find the strength to resist over and over.

It took several minutes before he calmed down enough to look at Elizabeth, his wife. He knew she had his best interests at heart and she'd never deliberately put him in a compromising position, so he did his level best to make his next words a question and not an accusation. "What were you thinking, El?"

"He came to me." El was clasping her hands, obviously worried by his reaction. "I mean, think about it, honey. If he didn't care about me too, he'd have seduced you by now."

Peter folded his arms and met her gaze head on. "Tried to."

El gave him a helpless look.

Peter sighed deeply. "Honey, talking about it won't help. It can only make things worse."

"Given the state Neal was in when he got here, I don't think things could get much worse," she said. "Do you?"

He stopped in front of her and put his hands on her shoulders. "Maybe not now, but with time—"

"It's already done," she said, searching his face. Peter didn't know what she was finding there. "It will clear the air."

She was so earnest, so sure, and Peter's heart ached. Her love for both him and Neal was as plain as day, dividing her loyalty, and Peter hated that he couldn't wave aside his responsibilities and give her everything she wanted. It was one thing to deny himself and Neal—the consolation there was knowing that his first duty to Neal was to toe the line and keep him out of prison—but to refuse El anything she wanted went against all his instincts. He took her in his arms. "Okay, fine," he said, and kissed the top of her head. "We'll talk about it."

When Neal got back, El made coffee and Peter fed Satchmo while Neal hovered in the doorway, watching them, making Peter's skin prickle. Then the three of them sat around the table and looked at each other.

"Neal," said El gently, "why don't you tell Peter why you came here this evening."

Neal glanced up from his cup. He looked rueful, but also as if he could see right through Peter's defenses. "We used to be partners," he said. "Now you're starting to treat me the same way Agent Rice did. Babysitting the car."

Peter held his gaze. "Yeah, well, Rice had a guilty conscience too, remember." He sighed. "You know we shouldn't even be having this conversation."

Neal made an impatient gesture. "If we all feel the same—"

"I don't know if we do." Peter studied him, trying to gauge his sincerity. "What is it you want from us, anyway? If it's just scratching an itch, then it's—"

Neal met him head on, and either he meant every word or he was a better liar than Peter knew. "I want to be with you," he said. "I want to be part of your lives."

"You're already part of our lives, Neal," said El softly.

He shot her a smile. "You know what I mean."

Peter folded his arms on the table and hunched forward. "You mean to tell me that the infamous Neal Caffrey is willing to forsake his life of crime to settle down in the suburbs and live an ordinary middle-class life. I thought you didn't do suits."

Neal's smile vanished. He licked his lips. "I couldn't see past that for a while. I do now." He tilted his head. "And I gave up my life of crime some months back, in case you haven't noticed."

"When it suits you," said Peter. He knew he was being too gruff, too distant, but he also knew that if he let himself, he'd bypass every scruple and restraint. There was too much at stake, and El and Neal seemed oblivious to the dangers. It was up to Peter to keep their feet on the ground.

El intervened. "Honey, Neal fit in just fine with us on Saturday, remember—"

Peter shook his head. "Is that what you want?" he asked Neal. "Supermarkets and Scrabble and household chores?"

Neal nodded.

Peter wished he could believe him. Wished they could step into a different world, where it was possible. "Even if that's true—"

"It is," said Neal.

"Even so." Peter covered his face. "We can't." He took a deep breath and dropped his hands, turned to Elizabeth. "You know we can't. We talked about this. I'm responsible to the Bureau, I'm responsible to Neal. It's just not possible." He looked at Neal, let himself really look even though it hurt, the ache in his chest like his ribs were broken again. "I'm sorry. I wish there were another way. Believe me, I wish—hell, maybe when your parole's up and you're a free man, we can have this conversation again."

That was stupid. No way would Neal wait three and a half years. Not for him. Not after Kate had left him high and dry.

But Neal's eyes were bright, as if he hadn't heard the "no," just the "I wish." Just like Caffrey. "Okay, I admit there are a few obstacles," he said. "So let's brainstorm. How do we get around them?"

"Neal—" Peter tried to interrupt.

"No, if you really want me, Peter—and Elizabeth, you too." Neal was in full flight now. "If you feel anything for me like I feel, I know we can find a way to make this work."

El smiled, her face lit with hope too, but Peter shook his head. "Legally? Ethically? No. The only way this could be remotely acceptable would be if someone else took over handling you."

Neal shrugged. "How about Jones? Nothing has to change—"

"Someone who doesn't report to me." Peter gave an exasperated sigh. "How would dragging Jones into this fiasco improve anything? It would have to be someone in a different department—and even if we could find someone appropriate, they wouldn't want you, because your skill set is specific to the White Collar Unit."

"Well." Neal tilted his head and shot Peter a wicked look. "How about if I date Elizabeth until my parole's up? It might not be everything, but at least we'd be—"

"Oh, right," said Peter, cutting him off before he got El's hopes up. "Because there's no conflict of interest there, with you dating my wife."

"Okay, okay, illicit dating is off the table." Neal sighed regretfully. "So we need to figure out how to shorten my sentence. I got a three month reduction for rescuing you from MacLean. We just need to figure out something bigger."

The thought was horrifying. "Is this worth dying for? Really? You risked your life to get me out of MacLean's HQ, and that got you three months." He saw Neal's frustration and had to dig his fingertips into the tabletop to keep from reaching for him. "You'd have to single-handedly prevent a full-blown terrorist attack to get your whole sentence commuted." Peter pressed his lips together and tried to make him understand. "I don't want you getting hurt. Don't make me live with that. Please, Neal."

El took Neal's hand. "He's right. They're not going to let you walk free unless you do something really stupid. I don't want you getting hurt either."

Neal rubbed his thumb over her hand, frowning, obviously wracking his brains for another solution, but El turned to Peter. "So what, then? What do we do?"

Peter tried to summon a smile for her. It wasn't easy. "We wait."

"Three more years?" Neal sat back in his chair and folded his arms. "That's some pretty extreme delayed gratification."

"It's our only option," said Peter. "We carry on, you stay out of trouble, I try to ease up on you a bit, and if we all still feel the same when your sentence is up—"

Neal stared at him in silence, then looked away and breathed a laugh. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were conning me into being a law-abiding citizen." He drank a mouthful of coffee and put his cup down again. "So give me a taste."

Peter raised his eyebrows and saw El do the same.

Neal looked between the two of them. "Three years of chess, Scrabble and unresolved sexual tension—I want to know what I'm waiting for."

Even El looked taken aback. "Um."

"I don't mean sex," said Neal. "One kiss. Each."

Peter shivered, despite himself. "We've already kissed," he pointed out.

"That doesn't count," said Neal. "You didn't mean it."

"I meant it enough," said Peter wryly. That kiss had started this whole thing, had turned his and El's life upside-down. But he wanted to give in to this—wanted to for Neal and for El, and for himself too. Wanted it desperately. He tried to think it through. "You won't change my mind."

"I know," said Neal. "The crazy thing is that I don't even know that I want to. I know who you are, Peter, and I want you, principles and all." He ducked his head. "Which doesn't mean I won't be looking for an escape route from my parole—but I do know this isn't it."

Peter nodded and exchanged glances with El.

"Yes," she said hoarsely.

"Yeah." Peter could feel his pulse racing. "One kiss."

"Here, now?" asked El, and Neal stood up in answer and pulled her into his arms, while Peter waited, expecting at least a twinge of jealousy and instead blindsided by the visceral lust that shot through him when Neal bent his head and brought his lips to El's.

It took everything Peter had to stay in his seat and not go over to join them.

El moaned and curled her arms around Neal's neck, holding him to her, and he shaped her curves with his hands, his long fingers wrinkling the dark blue fabric of her dress.

After a long minute, El pushed Neal back into his chair, still kissing him. She straddled his lap, and it was shockingly easy to imagine them naked, El riding Neal, both of them gleaming with sweat, muscles shifting under smooth skin, El's thighs tensing and Neal's biceps flexing as he supported her movements. El started rocking against Neal, and for a moment, Peter wondered if he'd have to intervene before they made the image a reality—wondered if he could find the voice and the willpower to do it—but Neal pulled back, panting, and buried his face in the angle of El's neck, hugging her tightly.

When he looked up, a long minute later, his eyes were dark and his lips red. He glanced at Peter, who had no idea what Neal saw, if he looked as stunned as Neal did. Probably. Peter moved to the head of the table so he could see both of their faces, see Neal brush El's hair back and look her right in the eye. "You're amazing," he said. "I mean, I knew you were, but God, Elizabeth—"

"Shhh," she said, and kissed him again, once, quickly. "Neal." She said his name like she was savoring it, making it her own. "This is going to be a really long three years, isn't it?"

Neal's mouth twisted wryly. "You have Peter to keep you company."

She nodded, but sighed anyway. "It's not fair on you, though. If you need—if you want to, you can see other people. I'd be—" She half-turned to Peter. "Honey, don't you think—?"

But Neal touched his finger to her lips and shook his head. "I don't want to. It's okay, I'm good at waiting. I just need to know what it is I'm waiting for."

El sucked his fingertip between her lips, and Neal's eyes fluttered shut. "It's probably safest if you don't—do that," he said unsteadily. "It's been a long time, and you are—"

El released him and framed his face with her hands, clearly wanting to kiss him again.

"I think we might be overstepping the agreed parameters," Neal told her softly, checking in with Peter again.

Peter swallowed hard and nodded, reluctant to end the scene before him, but impatient for his turn to hold Neal, to taste him and—

El allowed herself one last brush of lips against the corner of his mouth and moved away.

"Give me a minute, okay?" said Neal. He was visibly turned on and breathing hard.

"I told you she was incredible," said Peter, his voice scratchy. He couldn't tear his eyes from Neal, not even with El right there. "Take your time."

Satchmo ambled in from the kitchen, and Peter crouched to pat him, letting some of the tension dissipate, but even so, when he straightened and Neal came to stand in front of him, it was as if there was no air in the room, no sound.

Peter couldn't move.

Neal reached up and touched his jaw. In the silence, the sound of his fingertips rasping against Peter's five o'clock shadow was loud. The corner of Neal's mouth tilted and he tested the skin beside Peter's eyes, then his nose, his cheek. He seemed mesmerized, and Peter wanted to say something dry and self-deprecatory, but the words died in his throat.

"Hey," he said instead, and turned his face into Neal's palm, catching a faint trace of El's favorite perfume.

Neal's gaze dropped to Peter's mouth. He took half a step closer till there was less than an inch between them, until Peter couldn't focus. "Hey."

And then Peter stopped waiting. He leaned in the last little bit and met Neal's mouth carefully, as if this was a fragile thing, as if any rough treatment would startle one or the other of them and send them running for the hills. Neal's lips were warm and soft, and he accepted Peter's kiss passively at first, enough that Peter nearly pulled away, but then he made an inarticulate noise in his throat and cupped Peter's neck, pulled him in and opened to him. Peter let his control slide away and took Neal's mouth, shutting his eyes, tasting Neal for the first time since that crowded charade in the bar. The blur of the last weeks sharpened into focus, and Neal with it. Peter stopped thinking and second-guessing and trying to control his reactions, and finally let himself want Neal. Want him body and soul.

Just one kiss, he reminded himself, but the decision felt distant and stupid. Need was a tide carrying him away.

Neal groaned and Peter felt it resonate in every nerve, sending heat coursing down his spine, driving him further out of his mind. He wrapped his arms around Neal's shoulders and hauled him even closer, reveling in the length of his body, his urgent response, his erection thick and hard against Peter's thigh. As intoxicating as their working relationship sometimes was, it paled in comparison to this.

For the first time, Peter was fiercely and shamefully glad of the GPS tracker. Neal's parole might be a thorn in their sides, but the tracker meant they were connected. Neal couldn't just vanish into thin air, the way he had, over and over, when Peter had been chasing him all those years ago.

Neal's fingers slid up Peter's neck, digging into his scalp, and God, Peter needed him, wanted him, here, now. He ground his hips forward, and Neal moaned and broke free, tugging at Peter's arms to release him. He was shaking, wide-eyed, his hands fisted at his sides.

Peter had a horrified missed-step fear that he'd gone too far—mistaken Neal's intentions or misunderstood his response. That he'd screwed up beyond repair, and all of their lives would be irrevocably damaged. "I'm sorry," he started. "I—"

"Another second, and—" Neal interrupted. He took a deep unsteady breath and half turned away. "Peter. How am I supposed to keep my hands off you now?" He sounded desperate. "It's been bad enough—"

Peter instinctively pulled him close—just a hug this time. He held him, breathed him in, forcing himself to ignore desire and offer comfort.

Slowly, Neal relaxed against him. Peter pressed a chaste kiss to the side of his head. "Okay?"

"Better." Neal shifted and sighed.

Peter smiled, unseen, then looked up to find El watching them, her hands clasped. She gave him a wobbly smile in return, and Peter rubbed Neal's back and murmured in his ear, "We'll manage somehow," and "I love you."  
 

* * * * *

  
 

To Peter's surprise and relief, after that evening things at work improved immensely. Peter wasn't wasting energy fighting his feelings anymore. He stopped holding Neal at arm's length and treated him as a partner, and as a result, Neal was happier and more focused on the job. In the light of day and the mundane surroundings of the Bureau offices, the sexual tension between them was manageable. "We've got the dial set to simmer," Neal joked, in the car on the way to interview a witness.

Best of all, Peter could stop questioning Neal's motives and his goals: they were all on the same path, and they all knew it would be worth the wait. In the meantime, they settled into a routine: Neal came over for dinner once or twice a week, and occasionally Peter and El visited his place to watch a DVD, with or without June or Mozzie's company too.

It was warm and companionable, insulated from the world. If there were moments when Peter found himself mesmerized by Neal's mouth or eyelashes, his hands or the line of his neck, if Neal and El sometimes sat a bit too close on Neal's couch, El tracing lines on Neal's forearm, and if it sometimes seemed the height of foolishness and self-sacrifice to bring an evening to a close by telling Neal it was time to take him home—well, Peter could live with that. He had to.

The first time Peter drove Neal home after dinner, he pulled up at the curb outside June's place and left the engine idling. He wanted to come up for a nightcap, to prolong their time together. Mostly he wanted to kiss Neal goodnight. His lips tingled at the thought. But he kept a lid on it, reached out and ruffled Neal's hair instead, and Neal punched him lightly on the arm in response. It became a ritual—the hair, the punch—almost more intimate than kisses, because it was coded and private. Much like the messages Peter carried between Neal and El, cryptic utterances that made El laugh or (less often) blush, and brought an amused glint to Neal's eyes.

Sometimes when the three of them were together, Neal teased Peter for being a stick-in-the-mud. He campaigned vainly to get El to take his side, but there was no edge to it, no sting, and Peter retaliated by accusing him of being a troublemaker and a rogue, intent on forging copies of everything in the city. Early on, El laughed at one of these exchanges and said, "When you're done flirting, we can watch the movie."

Neal winked at her, and Peter's heart swelled with love for both of them.

After a few weeks, even Hughes noticed the change in Neal. "I don't know what you did," he told Peter, "but I'm impressed. You really seem to have got through to him."

He waited, obviously expecting an explanation. Peter hid his discomfort and nodded. "He's a good kid." And changed the subject.

Maybe a month after that, over Friday night dinner, Neal put down his fork, rested his elbows on the table and said, "I told Mozzie."

There was no mistaking his meaning. Peter swallowed his mouthful of pasta, feeling the world tilt out of control, unable to hide how vulnerable it made him feel to have their secret exposed to Neal's friend. He met Neal's gaze, and Neal gave a tiny shrug—enough that Peter guessed his confiding in Mozzie hadn't been entirely voluntary.

El was amused. "What did he say?"

Neal turned to her and relaxed into a grin. "He was impressed that you'd managed to rein in my appalling lack of impulse control."

"So am I," said Peter drily. He made himself start breathing again.

Elizabeth laughed and patted Neal's hand.

"He didn't believe me at first," Neal continued. "But then he was okay with it. He likes you."

He included Peter in that, and Peter snorted and reached for his wine. "I'm not sure whether that's a recommendation."

Later, in the car, Neal said into the silence, "Mozzie knows how to keep a secret. It's okay."

"Okay." Peter reached across and ruffled Neal's hair, taking comfort from the contact. There was nothing to do but trust.

Months passed. They managed. And then Matthew Keller escaped from prison.  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Neal was on the other side of the floor talking to Jones when Peter got the call. Peter grabbed his coat, checked his badge and gun, and caught Neal's eye across the office. They met up by the elevators.

"What is it?" asked Neal, settling his hat on his head.

"Keller's missing." Peter hustled him into the elevator and pressed the button for the basement parking garage.

Neal turned to him abruptly. "Missing?"

"He escaped from prison sometime in the last two hours." Peter dug in his pocket for his car keys. "Don't worry, we'll find him and bring him back."

But it wasn't that easy. There were leads by the dozen—they uncovered rumors of corruption among the prison staff, hints that Keller was getting help from other inmates; they found maps and codes hidden in Keller's cell, along with tools and lock picks—but nothing led anywhere. After three days of coming up empty-handed, it became increasingly obvious that the clues were deliberate red herrings, and Peter was starting to get pissed off at being made a fool of.

Worse, Neal was taking it personally. He'd stayed late at the office the night before, poring over news reports and old files, trying to find connections. Peter knew he and Keller were rivals, but this went beyond even Neal's usual competitiveness. Neal usually knew when to cut his losses; he'd shrug and smile philosophically, even when beaten, because he knew he'd get them next time. He could always put work aside and enjoy himself. But now it seemed like his contentment of the last few months was quickly being eclipsed by restless irritability.

It had only been a couple of days, Peter told himself. There was no real cause for concern. But when Neal begged off dinner with Peter and El on Thursday because he needed to wade through more files, and Peter couldn't talk him into taking the night off, no matter how hard he tried, Peter went home and shared his worries with El over dinner.

"You're worried because he's working too hard?" said El quizzically, as they cleared away the plates. "Have you thought maybe if you set him a better example—"

"It's not just that," said Peter, and then stopped and kissed her, with the wine glasses in one hand and the half-full bottle in the other. She smiled up at him and he sighed. "I know I work too much, and I know there's a pot-kettle situation here. But he's taking this case too much to heart. He looks like he's barely sleeping and—I don't know what it is, but something's wrong."

"Have you tried asking him?" El finished loading the dishwasher and hugged him.

An hour or so later, in the middle of an HBO show about New Orleans, which they were watching while Peter caught up on some paperwork, El got up to answer her phone. "Hi, June. Oh. Yeah, actually Peter was just saying earlier—No, it's fine. Thank you. No, thanks for letting me know." She hung up and looked at Peter. "You're not the only one who's worried. Shall we both go?"

Peter shook his head. "It's work-related. I should take this one alone."

"Okay." El bit her lip. "Tell him—tell him I said hi. And that I'm counting on a Scrabble re-match next week."

"I'll tell him," said Peter, reaching for his keys. "I'm sorry to—"

She shook her head. "Go."

It was past ten by the time he got to Riverside Drive. June let him in herself, but she didn't come upstairs. Peter knocked on Neal's door, feeling awkward, like they were all overreacting. Neal was a different person from the Neal Caffrey of a few months ago. He was stable and happy with his life, and no way could he have gone off the rails this quickly.

Neal answered the door barefoot, his cellphone to his ear, saying, "Come on, Moz, someone must know something. Keep trying." He hung up and blinked owlishly at Peter. "Is something wrong?"

His hair was in disarray, his eyes almost feverish, and behind him, the dining table was stacked with dozens of FBI files and some takeout containers. And lying on a patch of bare tabletop, separate, waiting, a pair of wire cutters.

Peter suppressed a shiver. "Going to invite me in?"

Neal ducked his head and stepped back, waving him inside. When he looked up again, his face was smooth and careful. "What's going on?"

"I was hoping you could tell me." Peter slung his coat across the back of the couch and went over to the table, carefully ignoring the cutters and focusing on the files. Some of them dated back to the early nineties. "Quite the historical record you've got here. Are these all related to Keller?"

"It's a hunch," said Neal. "I'm just following it up. I was going to tell you if it panned out." He made a show of straightening up, closed a few of the files, stacked some casually on top of the wire cutters. "Coffee?"

"Sure." Peter looked around. At least there weren't any suitcases in sight. Then he sighed. He hated this pussyfooting around—so he asked the question that had been nagging at him the whole drive over. "Is this about Kate?"

"What?" Neal looked genuinely startled. "How could it be about Kate? Is she involved?" He frowned. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"I don't know any more than you do, but barring our—our _thing_—I haven't seen you this worked up since—" Peter's gesture tried to encompass Neal's own escape from prison and the run-ins with Mei Lin and Fowler. "If it's not her, what is it? Because you're not acting like yourself."

Neal's face closed up at that. Peter caught a glimpse of clenched jaw before Neal turned to the stove and put the kettle on.

Peter came to stand behind him—not too close. A seemly distance. "Talk to me."

Neal took a deep breath, turned and shoved his hands in his pockets. His gaze was evasive and tired, but the words he spoke shook with sincerity. "I can't be ordinary, Peter."

Peter resisted the horrible falling sensation that threatened him. "Go on."

Neal started to pace. "I used to be good at this. I'm better than Keller—or I used to be. And if I can't be who I was, and I can't catch him, then where does that leave me? I'm just some guy in an office drinking bad coffee and signing Sorry You're Leaving cards for people I hardly know—And there's us, there's us and Elizabeth, but—God, Peter, I've spent over half a decade _waiting_. Waiting for my life to start up again. I can't do this anymore."

And that was it: Neal was a victim of their astounding success. He expected to close every case; he thought he was only as good as his last arrest. He didn't have the perspective to know that in law enforcement, as in everything else, there were no guarantees, and some cases were unsolvable, no matter how smart you were and how much time and brain power you threw at them.

Peter shut his eyes for a moment, waiting for the urge to reach out to Neal to subside. It didn't, and Peter succumbed. He went to him, hauled him into his arms and tried to hug him, but Neal was too tense, too wired.

He pulled away and raised his chin. "If you had grounds to arrest me now, would you?"

It was a shocking question, especially with the wire cutters lying on the table only a few feet away. Peter opened his mouth, but he didn't have an answer. Would he?

Neal pressed on. "This minute. If you—"

"Stop," said Peter. They locked gazes, and Peter's stomach twisted at the reckless passion he saw on Neal's face. He'd suspected all along that Neal abided by his parole conditions for Peter's and El's sakes far more than his own. Now Peter knew with a terrifying certainty that if he asked, Neal would break into the goddamned Vatican and steal the ceiling from the Sistine Chapel. That was what it was to be loved by Neal Caffrey. And Neal expected the same total commitment in return.

Peter couldn't arrest him, even if he truly deserved it. El would never forgive him—it would break her heart. It would break Peter's heart. It would destroy Neal.

How had they ever thought that waiting would solve anything? Peter took a half-step forward so they were within arm's reach, but he didn't make a move. "If you had to decide between working together and being together, which would you choose?"

Neal's eyes widened. He shook his head, denying the limitations of the question, so Peter took that last step forward himself and pressed a brief kiss to his lips. "We'll figure this out, I promise. In the meantime, get some sleep."  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Peter sat in his car at the traffic lights, watching them cycle through red–green–yellow–red–green, and thought about Neal and El and the lengths he was prepared to go to for them. He couldn't relieve Neal of his parole, but he could take up some of the burden it imposed on all of them if he was prepared to make some sacrifices. Could he live with that, and if he did, would it be enough for Neal, enough to make him stay? A cab blared its horn and overtook him, and Peter shook himself out of his reverie. He needed to talk to El before he did anything rash. They had to be sure—there'd be no coming back from this.

El was waiting up when he got home. The TV was on, but she turned it off as soon as he walked in the door. "What happened? Is he okay?"

Peter shrugged out of his coat and went over to hug her. "Not really. He's—he's at a crossroad, El. If we don't do something, I really think we could lose him altogether. He's thinking about running."

"Did he say that?" El tried to pull away. "I'm going to see him. I need to—"

"Honey, we have to talk about this," said Peter, taking her hands.

"But he _can't_," she said, frustrated and upset. "He knows what he means to us. He can't just leave!"

"He knows in theory," Peter told her. "Theory isn't enough anymore."

"God, I hate this," El burst out. "I hate that I can't do anything. We have to be careful and discreet and pretend we don't care when—" Her hands balled into fists. "Pretend it's _work-related_, and it doesn't concern me."

That was Peter's answer right there, but he asked the question he'd carried home with him anyway. "Honey, are you sure about Neal—that you want him to be a part of our marriage?"

She stilled, hearing the weight of the question. "Yeah, I am," she said. "Really sure. Aren't you?"

"I'm sure too." Peter took a deep breath. "I think it's time to show Neal that."

The next morning, Peter went into work early, made some phone calls, checked the intranet and went to talk to Hughes as soon as he showed up, itching to get it over with. He fully expected it to be the most uncomfortable conversation of his life, and he wasn't disappointed. He came out embarrassed and chastised, keenly aware that Hughes was disappointed in him, but also relieved and a little giddy.

Neal must have been monitoring the meeting through the glass wall. He appeared at Peter's elbow the second Peter emerged from Hughes's office. "What was that about?"

Neal still looked tired and frayed, and Peter didn't want to explain here, where anyone could overhear. "Come on," he said, and all but dragged Neal down to the car.

"Where are we going?" asked Neal. "Is this about Keller?"

But Peter refused to say anything. Halfway across the bridge, he called El. "Are you home?"

"Yeah," she said. "I cancelled my nine o'clock. How'd it go?"

"We'll be there soon," said Peter. "I'll tell you then." He hung up, and Neal narrowed his eyes.

"Tell her what?" he asked. "What's going on? Is this is about last night, because I don't want you to think I'm going to run, Peter. I wouldn't."

"It's a surprise." Peter shot him a quick sideways glance and read the tension on his face. "A good one, I hope." He wanted to reach over and ruffle his hair like he had so many times before, but if he bridged the gap between them now, there was a good chance he'd crash the car, and besides, Neal's wired demeanour didn't exactly invite casual gestures.

They drove the rest of the way in silence.

Peter managed to wait until they were inside, door shut, coats off, and El came through, her hair tied up in a messy knot, a pen in her hand and Satch at her side. Then Peter turned to Neal—and had a moment of blind panic that Neal had been humoring them all this time, going along with their romantic plans because he'd felt he had to. That he didn't want them. That Peter had just thrown away everything for something that didn't exist. El caught Peter's hand in hers, steadying him, and when he looked at Neal again, that sharp blue gaze fixed on him, trusting and curious, he knew it was going to be okay. This was the real thing.

Peter squeezed El's hand, and said to Neal, "All going well, as of Monday you report to Diana Barrigan."

Neal blinked. Clearly that wasn't what he'd been expecting. Then he frowned. "I thought you said reporting to someone else wouldn't make any difference."

"I said there's no use you reporting to someone who reports to me," Peter told him. El gave an encouraging nod. "Diana's moving back to take my position. I'm taking a voluntary leave of absence."

Neal gaped. "For three _years_? Peter, you can't possibly—"

"I already have," said Peter, firmly enough that Satchmo barked at his tone. "I'm done with waiting too."

Even El looked a little stunned. They'd talked about him transferring, but not this. She shooed Satch toward the kitchen and said, "Oh, honey. What are you going to do?"

"As soon as an opening comes up in another unit, I'm taking it," said Peter. "Anything except Organized Crime. In the meantime—" He shrugged and scratched the back of his neck. "—I guess I'm on vacation."

Neal still looked flabbergasted, his cheeks flushed. Peter went over and got in his personal space. "I outed us to Hughes. I know I should have checked with you first, but I needed to get it done. He's going to support my recommendation to the executive committee this afternoon, and Diana's excited about moving back, and—"

"Are you sure the committee won't put Neal back in prison?" asked El, looking worried.

"Neal didn't do anything wrong," said Peter. "For once in his life. The committee won't punish him for my lapse of judgment. And Diana's a strong choice. With Hughes's backing, it's a done deal."

"'Lapse of judgment'," repeated Neal mockingly. His frustration of the last few days seemed to be forgotten. He poked Peter in the chest. "You were bored out of your mind when you were stuck at home with your broken ribs. That was only a couple of weeks."

"I'm not exactly going to be convalescing this time." Peter clasped Neal's neck, felt the pulse thrum beneath his fingers. "This is the right thing to do, and it means—"

"It means we can be together," said El softly, beside them.

"Now," Peter agreed. He looked at Neal. "Today. If that's still what you want. And it means I won't find myself in a position where I have to arrest you and I can't."

Neal closed his eyes. "Peter—I didn't mean for you to give up everything!"

Peter leaned in and brought them forehead to forehead. "I'm not. Trust me, I'm coming out way ahead."

Neal swallowed and his hand found Peter's shoulder, gripped it tight. Peter pulled El into the embrace, and they hugged in a tangle of arms. It was light years away from the night before, with Neal miserable and trapped. Peter combed his fingers through Neal's hair and ruffled it. "Okay?"

Neal laughed. "Yeah. More than okay."

Something about that reminded Peter of the morning, over a year ago, when he'd given Neal his consultant's badge and said he owned him. They'd come full circle now: he didn't own Neal anymore, but they belonged to each other and to El.

"I love you," said El, and it took Peter a moment to register she wasn't speaking to him. Her hands were on Neal's face, her thumbs brushing his cheekbones. "I don't know how on earth we waited this long."

"Elizabeth." Neal said her name, almost a sigh, and bent to claim her mouth, and any thoughts Peter might have been entertaining—about work or the lack of it, or the fact that it was Friday morning and they were still on the clock, or anything else practical—fled. He zeroed in on them, their lips moving, lingering. El's hand slid to Neal's shoulder, red-painted nails digging in, drawing him closer as she arched against him, and Peter's heartbeat thudded in his ears.

Neal raised his head and gave El a wicked look. "Here, now?"

"Yes," she said without hesitation, and sent Peter a wordless question.

His mouth was dry. "Please."

She smiled and beckoned him closer, leaning across to kiss him too, her mouth slick and sweet. Peter was acutely conscious of Neal watching, Neal's hands on her and what they were about to do. He turned his head and Neal was right there, dark-eyed and vibrant, his lips parted.

Peter kissed him, quick and hard, and stepped back, leaving them to concentrate on each other, wanting to see. They were both so beautiful, and their urgency was mesmerizing.

El loosened Neal's tie and worked the top button of his shirt free. He pulled her close again, and they wrapped around each other, hungry and intent, and they were everything Peter had ever wanted—more than he'd known to want. He bit his lip and tried to ignore his own arousal, wanting to touch himself but feeling self-conscious despite everything.

El and Neal sank to the couch, delving into each other's clothing, grinding together. El moaned, sexy as hell, and Neal unfastened her blouse, leaving it falling off her shoulders while he ran his fingertips along her collarbones. He pulled the tie from her hair and nuzzled the angle of her neck, and then El looked over his shoulder at Peter, her eyes blurred with passion. She managed a crooked little grin and said, "Honey, you look thirsty."

Neal twisted to followed her gaze. "Peter, what are you doing all the way over there?"

"Watching," said Peter. "Enjoying the view."

"Get over here." There was a note of command in Neal's voice that Peter hadn't heard before—it sent a bolt of heat through him that propelled him across the room to join them.

"That's better," said Neal, and kissed him, hot, dark and shameless. He tasted faintly of coffee and of El. "This is no time for surveillance. You have to get in, get your hands dirty."

"Is that so?" Peter smoothed across Neal's back, vestless now but still wearing his fine blue cotton shirt, down over his ass to El's thigh, which was exposed where she'd pulled the folds of her skirt up and out of the way.

"Oh God." El sounded on the verge of losing her mind. She grabbed Peter's hand and hung on, and turned her face to Neal, seeking his mouth, hitching her hips up against him. "I'm feeling greedy," she told him frankly.

"Oh, good," said Neal. He pulled back a fraction, engaged in some sleight of hand between them, presumably undoing his pants, and El wriggled to get her underwear down—not off, but apparently off enough, because the next minute they were thrusting together, their movements unmistakable despite El's skirt and thigh and Neal's pants blocking Peter's view.

Peter moved in and nipped El's earlobe just how she liked it, cupped her breast and flicked his thumb across her nipple through the lace of her bra, and she covered his hand to keep him there, her moans growing louder. He spared a moment's embarrassment to the fact that it was mid-morning, daylight streaming in the window and anyone could be walking past—their neighbors, for example. People they interacted with on a regular basis. Then Neal's pants slipped further down his thighs to bare his ass, which was flexing as he and El fucked. Peter sat back, his attention well and truly captured, and he cast aside his reticence and undid his own pants, desperate to touch himself. But before he could do more than free himself from his jockeys, Neal gripped his wrist. "Wait for me."

That voice of authority again. Peter responded to it instinctively, even as he wondered where it had come from; all these months, Neal had been easygoing, sometimes teasing or argumentative, but always ultimately deferring to Peter. "You've been holding out on me."

Neal met his gaze, his eyes lust-hazed but still bright with understanding. "You owned me," he pointed out, and whoa, they were going to have to talk that one through, but not now, not with El cupping Peter's cheek with one hand, drawing him in to kiss her while she urged Neal on with the other.

"Maybe save the—the conversation for later?" she suggested breathlessly. Peter moved back and Neal took her mouth, laughing as he did, and they sped up until the couch shook and El swore. She hooked one leg over Neal's arm for a better angle, and then bit her lips and actually growled as she came—a sound that brought back decade-old memories from before they got married, memories of don't-wake-the-roommate sex, all heavy breathing and low-pitched growls.

Peter gave in to temptation and started stroking himself again, tightening his grip when Neal gave a heartfelt groan, arms trembling, his face going slack and unfocused. A long moment later, Neal and El relaxed, sprawling decadently, and El gave Peter a smug grin. "Worth the wait," she said.

Neal looked up with mock reproach. "You ever doubted it?" He sat back, his pants still around his thighs. "We've made a mess of the couch, though."

"It's seen worse," said Peter, trying and failing to slow his hand. He was almost as moved by the casual intimacy of their conversation as he'd been by their love-making.

El nodded serenely. "We usually blame Satchmo."

"Mascot and scapegoat," said Neal, shaking his head. "Someone needs to stand up for that dog."

"You're taking up advocacy work now?" asked Peter, through gritted teeth. Neal might be unself-conscious about his state of undress, but Peter was conscious enough of it for both of them. Maybe next time, he'd get to—

"I told you to wait for me," said Neal, finally registering what Peter was doing.

"I'm only human," Peter told him. They were both watching him now. There was no point getting inhibited, so he gave himself up to the rhythm. "I had no idea seeing my wife with another man would be such a turn on."

"Oh, honey." El twisted to kiss him.

"I was pretty sure that seeing you two make out would be a turn on," said Neal. "Don't mind me."

El laughed and shoved him toward Peter, so they were nose-to-nose.

"You should let me suck you off," said Neal, his voice like caramel.

Peter gasped a laugh, and said, "Next time," and guided Neal's hand to his cock. Neal took over immediately, glancing down to watch his hand moving on Peter's erection, his tongue sliding out to wet his lips. Peter framed his face with his hands and kissed him, deep and luxurious, feeling a wild dark heat build, letting it carry him away. Neal's chin was very faintly scratchy, his breath coming fast, and when his tongue swept into Peter's mouth, Peter shuddered, the pleasure inside him so intense it was almost pain, collapsing down to an irresistible pulsing point. "Yes," he said. "Oh, fuck, yes." He slung his arm around Neal's shoulders and stiffened, and came.

Neal kissed him harder then, shimmying so he was basically lying across Peter's lap, holding him. He wiped his hand on his own shirt without looking, and Peter broke away to tease him. "Greater love hath no man—"

"That's right," said Neal, turning the joke into a pledge.

Peter ruffled his hair. "I know."

Neal relaxed against him, yawning, and El and Peter both yawned in response. "We'd probably be more comfortable in bed," said El, sleepily, but none of them moved.

Peter stroked Neal's hair. "You know, I think most of all I'm going to miss having access to your tracking data."

Neal looked up at him like that was the stupidest thing on earth. "Peter, if you want to know where I am, you just have to ask."  
 

* * * * *

  
 

Although the compensations were exceptional, ultimately it was easier to make a grand gesture than to live with its consequences. The reality of being unemployed didn't sink in until Monday morning, when Peter dropped off El and Neal at their respective offices and drove himself home. He walked in the front door and looked around, his mind already on the home repairs he'd been putting off for months, and then he took a deep breath and let it out, and thought _This is my life now._

Over the weekend, El and Neal had both offered suggestions of how Peter could occupy his time. Neal had pointed out he was the proprietor of a business, and that Peter was more than welcome to run the bakery.

Peter had shaken his head incredulously. "All I know about bakeries is that they keep lousy hours. I don't know anything about retail."

"So it'd be a challenge," said Neal undaunted.

Peter pulled him close. "I'll be fine. Kiss me."

El's suggestion that Peter become a partner in her event planning business was almost as ridiculous, and Peter managed to distract them from any other unlikely suggestions. They'd talked about money too, tangled on the bed on Saturday evening, while they were trying to summon the energy to go downstairs and rummage up some dinner.

"Can you afford to be out of work?" Neal had asked. "I have money."

Peter's head was on Neal's shoulder. "I've got about half a year's worth of vacation days owing."

"I do pretty well, actually," El pointed out. "It may not be a regular paycheck, but Burke Premier Events isn't exactly struggling."

Peter closed his eyes and said, as straight-faced as he could, "Plus if Neal moves in, we'll get his seven hundred a month."

"Peter?" Neal shifted under him, trying to see his face, and Peter blinked his eyes open and smiled at him.

"I'm kidding. I mean, yeah, I want you to move in—"

"We want you to," El corrected, rolling onto her side and kissing the corner of Neal's shoulder.

"—but we're not going to go bankrupt if you don't." Peter stretched. "Whenever you're ready."

Whenever Neal was ready turned out to be the very next day. Peter and El helped him move his things, and El invited June to dinner the following Friday. "We don't want to lose touch," she said, giving June a hug.

"Neither do I," June replied promptly, and she turned to Neal. "It's been a delight having you under my roof, young man."

"Thank you," said Neal. "For everything." He kissed her cheek.

That had been less than twenty-four hours ago, and Peter had been riding a high of endorphins and love. Now he was alone and the endorphins were fading. He leafed through the stack of Neal's books on the coffee table—mostly art and art history—and spent a few minutes making room for them on the bookshelves. Then he got a cup of coffee, sat at the table with a notepad and pen, and made a list of everything he wanted to get done around the house. When he was finished, he reviewed the list and decided that all up, it would take him about a week and a half to clear it.

This was stupid. Of course it would take time to adjust to not working: he hadn't been unemployed before; no doubt there was a rhythm to these things, habits to acquire. He was just as capable of stopping and smelling the roses as the next guy.

"I'll be fine," he told Satchmo, who yawned and settled himself at Peter's feet.

Peter finished his coffee and went to the hardware store, where after buying a set of shelves, he sat in the parking lot for half an hour, watching people come and go. He was roused from his reverie by two small boys arguing over a set of screwdrivers while their mother strapped a baby into an infant safety seat.

Peter shook his head, reached for his cellphone and called three of the largest insurance companies. By four o'clock he had two job offers. He took the one that wasn't based in Minneapolis, agreed to start the following Monday and went to the supermarket to get something special for dinner.

 

**Epilogue**

Three weeks later he was in a hotel in Cleveland, getting ready for bed, when his phone rang. He spat out a mouthful of toothpaste, wiped his mouth and hurried to answer it. "Hey."

"Hey there, working man," said Neal, his voice warm. "How's it going? Is private insurance a hotbed of corruption and intrigue, like I said?"

"Yeah, I'm living _The Thomas Crown Affair_." Peter went to the window and looked out at the city lights. "I'm pretty sure it's not an inside job, at least. How's the Belmont case going?"

"We're making progress," said Neal easily. "Diana's a pretty tough taskmaster."

Peter laughed. "Good. You need someone who'll keep you in line." He sat on the end of the bed in his shorts and t-shirt, and scratched his knee absentmindedly.

"I think I've finally got a lead on Keller," added Neal.

Peter stilled. "Be careful. You know what he's capable of."

"I know." The phone line hummed for a moment. "I miss working with you."

"Yeah." Peter missed it too, no matter how many times he told himself the move was worth it. It _was_ worth it. That didn't mean he didn't wish things could be different. "Any regrets?"

"Not one," said Neal, promptly. "And, you know, in a couple of years—"

"If you decide to stay on the side of truth and justice—" said Peter.

Neal laughed. "I think you can take that as read. Elizabeth would kick my ass if I got myself in trouble now, and I can't see Diana stealing security tapes and risking her career to keep me out of prison."

"Very true," said Peter. "Is El around?"

"Charity auction."

"Oh, right." Peter should have remembered that.

"I was going to go too, but we ended up working late on the Belmont thing, so I thought I'd stay in and tell you a story instead."

"Is that right?" Neal's tone was all innocence, but Peter knew a euphemism when he heard one. Neal's repertoire of fantasies he'd cooked up about Peter and El over the last six months was apparently inexhaustible, and he'd taken to sharing them at opportune times. Just the oblique reference combined with the knowledge that Neal was thinking about him like that was enough to turn Peter on. He shuffled up the bed so he was sitting with his back against the wall and let his hand rest lightly over his erection. "So, how does this story start?"

"Two straight guys walk into a gay bar—" said Neal.

Peter grinned. "Sounds like a bad joke."

"It was," said Neal, "and then it wasn't anymore. Remember how, after we kissed, we were both turned on and I said, 'I could help you with that'? I always wonder, what if you'd said yes. What if you'd let me take you into the bathroom and lock the door, and you'd have been halfway between nervous and outraged, but I wouldn't have cared because I wanted to taste you that much."

Peter pressed down harder, then gave in and pushed his shorts out of the way. "Are you touching yourself?"

There was a muffled sound, then, "Yeah. You are too, aren't you? God, Peter."

"You would have sucked me off then?" Peter asked, not sure if they were talking about history or fantasy, not really caring.

"I would." Neal's voice shook slightly. "I wouldn't have cared how dirty the floor was, or how risky it was. I wouldn't have cared about anything. I would have begged if I had to."

"You wouldn't have had to," said Peter, stroking himself roughly.

"I would have been on my knees before you could change your mind, unzipping your fly, reaching in." He sounded increasingly breathless. "God, my mouth's watering just thinking about it."

Peter swallowed around the lump in his throat. His hand sped up. "I wouldn't have lasted long, not if I could see how much you wanted it."

"I want it now," said Neal. "I want to suck you. I want you here, touching me. Your body, your hands—"

"Your mouth," said Peter. "Oh, Jesus. _Neal_." He lost it in a rush of sparks and pleasure, coming hard, hearing Neal swear through his own orgasm on the other end of the line. The miles between them were like an ache, bearable only because he'd be home in a few days.

Peter wiped himself up with his t-shirt, then pulled it awkwardly over his head, bunched it up with the wet spot on the inside and threw it toward the bathroom. "That was—"

"Yeah," said Neal. They were quiet for a minute and then he sighed. "Okay, well, I should probably—"

"Okay." Peter was reluctant to end the call, but it was late and he had a lot to get through the next day. "I'll be home Friday at the latest."

"We'll keep the home fires burning," said Neal, with enough sleepy innuendo that Peter immediately pictured him and El entwined together, naked and sated.

It was a good image. "You do that."

"Good night."

"Yeah. Talk to you soon." Peter nearly hung up, but—

"Hey," said Neal, quietly. "Are you still there?"

"Yeah, what is it?"

"Just—I love you, Peter."

It was the first time he'd said it in so many words, and Peter shut his eyes, savoring the moment, holding it close and feeling like his heart might burst. "I know. I love you too."

They hung up and Peter got into bed and turned out the light, lying there with a stupid grin, counting down the hours till he could go home.

 

END


End file.
